


Sleeping Dragons Pilot - The Unexpected Rise of Director Jones

by Soledad



Series: Sleeping Dragons [1]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Torchwood
Genre: Awesome Toshiko Sato, BAMF Ianto, Gen, Pilot Episode, Torchwood Alternate Series 2, Torchwood One references, Very much AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 05:31:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 93,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7562275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack is gone, and the rest of the Torchwood Three team must see how they manage without him.<br/>After an idea of weis07 and used with her generous consent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shepherdless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Weis07](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Weis07).



> **Timeline:** Right before Series 2 for Torchwood. Spoilers for the 3nd series Dr. Who finale “Utopia/The Sound of Drums/The Last of the Time Lords”.
> 
> Several different timelines give several different dates when Tosh, Owen or Ianto were recruited for Torchwood. I chose the one that fit the story best, so please, don’t start arguing with me over that point. Thanks.
> 
>  **WARNING:** This is  not a Gwen-friendly story. Nothing I ever write will be. If that bothers you, please hit the Back button, now – that would spare us both a lot of headache.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
 **CHAPTER 01 - SHEPHERDLESS**

More than a week had passed since Abaddon had emerged in all its dark glory, like some bizarre imitation of King Kong, towering over the city of Cardiff, killing everybody unfortunate enough to fall under its shadow. 

A week since Jack had seen no other choice than to go out and offer himself to the monstrous creature like an all-you-can-eat buffet.

A week, for which he had been lying in the morgue, grey and still and cold. Dead. Jack Harkness, who had always been so vibrant, so full of life, was dead.

It was not _right_ , Ianto thought, wandering around the Hub and picking up debris mindlessly. Jack was not _meant_ to be dead.

It had been a week since they, the team he had hand-picked over the years, had ganged up against him, betrayed him and killed him. Granted, it had been Owen who had actually pulled the trigger, but they had been in this together.

_All_ of them.

They had all agreed that the Rift had to be opened. They had all trusted the fake images – generated by the enigmatic Bilis Manger for that exact purpose – more than their own leader, who had known it better and had warned them repeatedly. Standing in Jack’s office and holding onto his greatcoat as if it had been his lifeline, Ianto could remember the argument vividly.

“Did he say Emergency Protocol One?” Tosh had asked. “And how come I don’t know about it?”

She had sounded hurt rather than angry. Unlike Gwen, she never considered it her God-given right to be told _all_ Torchwood secrets. But she had probably thought she would have earned the right to be told such important things by now.

Apparently, she had been wrong – and it clearly hurt her.

“The information is buried very deeply in the Archives,” Ianto remembered himself saying. “It’s the last resort. A contingency created by the people who built Torchwood. To fully open the Rift, if nothing else would work.”

“We can actually do _that_?” Tosh had been stunned.

Jack had not answered right away. He’d seemed surprised that Ianto of all people would be in possession of such confidential knowledge. Ianto was still a bit insulted by _that_. He’d been a Torchwood One Archivist, for God’s sake, what had Jack expected from him? To be a simple filing clerk?

“It’s never been used,” Jack had finally told Tosh. “With good reason. Torchwood sits on top of the Rift. Open it, and this is the first building to go.”

Ianto could still feel the annoyance he’d felt hearing that lame excuse. What importance could Torchwood possibly have when the existence of the whole planet was at stake?

“I _would_ make the sacrifice,” he’d hissed. “Wouldn’t you?”

In the end, Jack had proved to be right, of course. The opening of the Rift hadn’t got all the previous problems undone; it had unleashed Abaddon and forced Jack, who had barely returned to life after Owen had shot him, to sacrifice himself. Again.

And this time he hadn’t just bounced back as if nothing had happened.

His first resurrection had not truly surprised Ianto. He’d known about Jack’s immortality for years. After all, Headquarters had known about it, and what Headquarters knew, Ianto knew, too, especially if it concerned alien life.

Jack _had_ been registered as an alien life form at Headquarters. “The freak of Cardiff” they had called him.

That he’d chosen _not_ to share this piece of information with his current team was something that always confused Ianto. Even though he knew that Tosh had realized it some time ago, and that Gwen was in the secret as well, having witnessed Suzie killing Jack.

Owen, on the other hand, had _not_ known. And he had still been desperate enough to get Diane back to shoot Jack, in order to get his retina print, so that they could set Emergency Protocol One in motion. Even knowing that Jack would come back, Ianto still wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to forgive their doctor.

Or that Owen would ever be able to forgive himself, for that matter. Especially now that Jack seemed to have died for good. It had been more than a week…

At first, they had all been too numb with grief and guilt to question Gwen’s dogged refusal to leave Jack’ side, but as time had gone on, Ianto felt his resentment towards her growing. By now, he was downright pissed. What gave her the right to usurp that position at Jack’s side? Didn’t she have a good, long-suffering man at home to attend to? A man whom she supposedly loved so much that she would open the Rift, end the word – _and kill Jack!_ – to bring him back? Why was she not at home, taking care of her boyfriend? Why did she remain glued to Jack’s side, effectively hindering the rest of the team to say their good-byes?

Was it guilt, for having practically led the rebellion that had ultimately caused Jack’s death? Or did she want to rub in their faces, especially in Ianto’s face, that she had such a special relationship with Jack?

After all, hadn’t Jack chosen her to accompany him when he’d gone out to face Abaddon?

For his part, Ianto thought that Jack had chosen Gwen because she was _expendable_. Torchwood would have had a hard time to go on without Tosh’s technical genius or Owen’s medical expertise… or even his, Ianto’s extensive knowledge about the Archives. Not to mention the fact that without him, they’d never be able to gain access to Headquarters’ digital database. He was the only one who knew all the codes and passwords.

But what had Gwen ever contributed, in all her time working for Torchwood, except pissing off the police in her lame attempts to play liaison and thus making cooperation with the local authorities even more complicated? As if Jack’s arrogance hadn’t caused enough problems in the first place…

Of course, Ianto readily admitted that he wasn’t entirely without prejudice when it came to Gwen-bloody-Cooper (as Suzie had so adequately nicknamed her). Frankly, it would have been hard to be fair to someone who considered him either her personal servant or simply part of the furniture. And then there were her less than subtle attempts to get into Jack’s pants.

Ianto was an old-fashioned guy in the heart of his hearts. He believed in honesty, fidelity, and commitment. He could not understand why someone with a long-term partner – who worshipped the ground she was walking on – felt it necessary to cheat on said partner. And yet Gwen had been shagging Owen (until Diane’s appearance, after which Owen had come to his senses and dropped her like a hot potato) and did her best – or would it be her worst? – to crawl into Jack’s bed, too. Had tried her damnedest since she’d first set foot into the Hub.

The ironic thing was that Ianto knew for the fact that Jack had never touched Gwen _that_ way. Jack had _respected_ Gwen’s relationship with Rhys, way more than Gwen herself. But that didn’t make _Ianto_ feel any better. It seemed only to prove Owen’s point: that he had only been a part-time shag for Jack.

Would he otherwise have fallen for the other, the real Jack Harkness as hard as a schoolboy at his first crush? During the last week Tosh had found the time to tell him everything that had happened in the past. She felt that he had the right to know, and Ianto was grateful, even though it broke his heart.

There had doubtlessly been a great deal of hero worship on _their_ Jack’s part, and there could be no doubt that the real Captain Jack Harkness most likely deserved it. He had been a hero. But that didn’t change the fact that Jack had only returned to their time because duty called.

He had not come back for Ianto. He had possibly completely forgotten about Ianto’s very existence.

And now he was lying in the morgue, dead, shielded by Gwen from everyone else, and Ianto couldn’t even speak his farewells. It was almost too much to bear. Losing Jack, now that he had finally begun to overcome the loss of Lisa, the loss of all his friends at Canary Wharf…

Jack had given him purpose, after he had lost what was still there from Lisa. What was he supposed to do, now that Jack was gone, too?

He took Jack’s greatcoat from the coat rack behind the desk (he had advanced from the main Hub area to cleaning the office, not that it would have needed cleaning, just to occupy himself with some blessedly mindless task), and buried his face in the thick wool. It still held Jack’s unique scent; those blasted fifty-first century pheromones that could make him weak-kneed, even now.

He didn’t even realise when his tears had started to fall.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
He couldn’t tell afterwards how long he’d been standing there, crying into Jack’s coat like the heroine of some overdone melodrama, when Tosh knocked on the glass door.

“Ianto? I need your help, I’m trying to fix the Rift manipulator again, but without the necessary codes…” she trailed off apologetically.

Ianto nodded. She was right, of course. This wasn’t the time to wallow in self-pity – or in self-recriminations, for that matter. They had a great deal of damage control to do, and only the two of them had the necessary knowledge to actually do so. Tosh had the technical know-how, and _he_ … he knew _all_ the codes and passwords.

Between the two of them, even with Jack dead and Suzie gone, they _were_ Torchwood. When it came down to the basics, neither Owen nor Gwen did really count, no matter how loud and obnoxious they could be at times – well, practically most of the time. 

At least Owen’s medical skills were useful, and he’d gained a great deal of experience when it came to alien life forms, but without the two of them, even he would have been completely helpless.

“All right,” Ianto said, forcing a calmness he didn’t truly feel and would probably never feel again upon himself. “Show me what you’ve got.”

He found that while the Rift manipulator had been badly damaged by their delusional attempt to open the Rift fully, it wasn’t entirely beyond help just yet. It would be a hell of a job without Suzie’s technical skills, but it was at least doable – in theory anyway.

“I’ll have to dig out the original construction plans from the Historic Archives, and we’ll probably have to manufacture a lot of the spare parts somehow, but we ought to be able to repair it eventually,” Ianto decided. “We might need to get some help with it, though. We don’t really have the right equipment here.”

“I hope you don’t intend to involve UNIT in any way,” Tosh replied darkly. “In the second they figure out what we’ve done, we’ll all end up in the same prison I had been kept until Jack bailed me out of it. Trust me, that’s not something I’d want for any of us. Not even for Saint Gwen at her most annoying.”

Ianto knew what she meant and agreed completely.

“Actually, I was thinking of Sir Archibald,” he said, adamantly refusing to simply call the head of Torchwood Glasgow _Archie_ as Jack had preferred to do. “Torchwood Two might be just an office now, but they have the most amazing technology collecting dust in their storerooms. And Sir Archibald is technically savvy, no matter what Jack might think… _might have thought_ about him.”

“Doesn’t he report to UNIT, though?” Tosh asked worriedly.

Ianto shook his head. “No more than we do; actually, even less so. Jack counted as belligerent, but Sir Archibald is considered eccentric to the extreme. He decided that no-one at UNIT was trustworthy after the Brigadier’s retirement, and simply refused to send them any more reports.”

“And they accepted that?” Tosh said in surprise.

“Apparently, this was filed away as another one of his personality quirks. Like insisting to wear a kilt all the time. UNIT believes Torchwood Two to be insignificant, its major function being to watch out for the Loch Ness monster. Sir Archibald uses that cover to know everything that is there to know about Torchwood _and_ UNIT. Appearances aside, he is a force to be reckoned with; and fortunately, he happens to like me.”

“Let me guess: he’s a coffee addict,” Tosh smiled thinly. Ianto nodded.

“That, too. But he’s grateful that I’ve overhauled his archives a year ago, when Jack lent me to Torchwood Two.”

“I see,” Tosh paused. “Ianto, does Archie know who you really are? _What_ you used to do at Headquarters?”

Ianto gave her a sharp look. ”And how would _you_ know about that? I haven’t even told Jack that little detail.”

“From Trevor Howard,” Tosh confessed. “As you probably know, I used to have a… a little romance with Rajesh Singh, right before the Battle of Canary Wharf, and Trevor was his assistant at that time. After the Battle, he told me about the Archivists and why they were so vital for Headquarters – in case one of them needed help. It turns out you were the only one who survived, but I did what little I could do for you.”

Ianto stared at her, his mind whirling furiously.

“The text messages,” he then said tonelessly. “ _You_ were the one sending them. _You_ helped me to get this job!”

Tosh nodded modestly. 

“I knew that sooner or later we’d need somebody with your knowledge,” she said. “And besides, I never understood Jack’s rabid hatred towards Headquarters. Granted, they made mistakes, but who doesn’t?”

“Neither have I,” Ianto admitted. “There might be a personal motivation behind it, but as per usual, Jack never found it necessary to enlighten any of us – unless Gwen knows something about it.”

He could not quite filter the bitterness he still felt about the privileged treatment of Gwen out of his voice, and Tosh could not blame him for that. She felt the same half the times. But at least she hadn’t been Jack’s lover.

“I seriously doubt it,” she answered dryly. “Would she know anything, she’d have rubbed it in our faces already.”

“Most likely,” Ianto allowed and squatted down next to the column hiding the Rift manipulator to pick up some damaged machine parts. “We’d better collect all the parts, no matter in how many pieces or how twisted out of shape they are, so that we can compare them with the original blueprints. Can you take this from me?”

Tosh reached out helpfully to do so… then she dropped the twisted, sooty piece of metal with a loud _clank_ , her eyes widened, and she run across the entire working area with a happy shriek. 

Following her path with his eyes, Ianto almost swooned when he saw Gwen enter the Hub… hand in hand with _Jack_!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Jack stepped away from Gwen – who was clinging to his hand with all her might – and opened his arms. Tosh threw herself into his embrace, not doubting for a moment that he would catch her. They held each other in a tight hug for long moments. Long enough for Ianto to stand up and head over to them.

The positive shock of seeing Jack alive again carried him half the way, but then he slowed down, not quite sure about his welcome. Finally, just a step or two from Jack, he stopped entirely and held out a hand in an awkward manner. Perhaps Owen _had_ been right, after all. Perhaps he _had_ just been a diversion for Jack, to help him keep his hands from Gwen, whom he had considered untouchable because of her stable relationship.

Jack released Tosh. Their eyes met over her head for a lifetime or two. Ianto’s hand, forgotten, was still stuck out in that awkward angle. Then Jack suddenly grabbed him and pulled him in. The scent of his warm, _living_ body would have been enough for Ianto to swoon in earnest.

But it did not end like that. Now Jack took his face in those big hands and kissed him on the mouth soundly, in front of the two women. It was a long, lingering kiss, full of sorrow and promises… and forgiveness. If he could, Ianto would have let himself fall and drown in the sensation.

Their moment was interrupted all too soon – by a loud _thud_. Extracting himself from Jack’s arms with great reluctance, Ianto saw that Owen had come in while he was… _distracted_ and dropped the kit he had been carrying down to the floor. He was staring at them, with his mouth hanging literally open.

Ianto discretely stepped out of the way, joining the two women in the background. Owen was still staring at Jack, at the man he’d killed a week ago. His mouth was twitching, his Adam’s apple bobbling as he was trying to form coherent words… and failed.

“I…” was all that he could get out.

Jack watched his struggle for a moment; then he walked over to him.

“I forgive you,” he said simply, seriously; then he grabbed Owen, too, and hugged him like a child, while Owen cried. Great, wracking sobs shook his thin body as he tried to cleanse himself from his guilt… the prodigal son in his father’s arms.

Ianto couldn’t remember having _ever_ seen Owen Harper cry. Not even after Diane had chosen to leave them, to try her luck with the Rift again, in the hope that she would find a way back home.

When Owen’s sobs finally died down, Jack released him, patted him on the back gently, and then looked at the others.

“I don’t know about you, but I’ve gone for more than a week without any caffeine input,” he said. “Any chance to get a decent coffee in this place?”

“I’m sure Ianto can be persuaded to work some coffee magic,” Gwen said with condescending sweetness.

“I could, if there were any coffee beans left,” Ianto replied curtly.

His joy over Jack’s return was fading rapidly. He was getting truly, honestly pissed off again. He was fed up with Gwen bossing him around, with her practically annexing Jack and separating him from the others. From _him_.

“Then you wouldn’t mind doing the coffee run, would you?” Gwen asked sweetly.

“Actually, we could all use some fresh air,” Tosh interfered hurriedly, seeing the murderous gleam in Ianto’s eyes and recognizing it for what it was. “Why don’t we all go to Costa’s and bring coffee and biscuits for everyone?”

“That’s a good idea, Tosh,” Gwen jumped at it before Jack could have answered. “Jack and I will just be waiting here for you.”

Owen shrugged; he was just relieved to have Jack back and didn’t mind Gwen fawning over him too much. Tosh grabbed Ianto’s arm, pulling him with them – right until the tourist office. There she let go of him.

“Go back and fight for your territory,” she ordered. “Don’t let her stake her claim without resistance. _Your_ claim is older; stick to it, for God’s sake!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Ianto was less than certain about having any claim at all where Jack’s affections were concerned, but he followed Tosh’s suggestion nonetheless – well, sort of. He did not go back to the Hub, but he _did_ switch on the security screen in the tourist office, calling up the feed from the camera watching Jack’s office.

The sight, sadly, was no surprise for him; it was one he had seen countless times before. Jack was sitting behind his desk, his greatcoat on, going through the files on the desk with a frown. Files about the damage done to the Hub. Files about the repairs already done (a very small pile). Files about the repairs still needing to be done (a much higher pile). Files about the victims of Abaddon (a depressingly high pile).

Reports that Ianto had put together with painstaking accuracy, as if some tiny part of him would have hoped to discuss them with Jack, after all, against all hope. Like they had always done.

Only that this time, it wasn’t him who was sitting on the edge of Jack’s desk. It was Gwen, assuming some wannabe-Lolita pose of what she had probably thought would be endearing. She had even bound her hair into two ridiculous ponytails above her ears like an eight-year-old. On a woman of her age, they looked pitifully stupid, although she had probably wanted to go for ‘cute’. 

Which was kinda hopeless, going with that badass black leather attire she was wearing.

“What's happened to the Rift?” she asked. “We haven’t had another alarm since… well, since _then_.”

“It closed up when Abaddon was destroyed,” Jack replied absently, preoccupied with the reports. “But it's gonna be more volatile than ever. There’s a reason why we ain’t supposed to mess with the Rift manipulator, you know.”

Wonder of wonders, Gwen accepted _that_ without further argument; for now. She just sat there, with what Ianto secretly called the ‘blowfish expression’ on her face, apparently thinking very hard about something.

“The visions we had,” she began again. “We all saw people we loved. What did _you_ see?”

Jack’s face closed off at once, like always when someone was stupid enough to ask him about what it felt being dead or something equally idiotic. A casual observer wouldn’t have realized that his mental shields had slammed down, but Ianto knew him better (and more intimately) than anyone else in the team.

Better than even Jack himself would have imagined, in truth.

“Nothing,” Jack finally said flatly, with a shake of his head. “There was nothing.”

“Jack,” Gwen, of course, couldn’t leave it alone, despite of the finality in Jack’s voice. “What would have tempted _you_? What visions would have convinced you to open the Rift?”

Again, Jack held back with an answer for a while. Ianto wished he would say _nothing_ again, but he knew better than that. Every man had his breaking point. Even Jack Harkness.

“The right kind of Doctor,” Jack replied in the end; he got up and headed out of the office, leaving a dumbfounded and mildly insulted Gwen, who had no clue what that answer could have meant, behind.

“Jack ...?” she tried again, uncertainly, but Jack didn’t even look back.

Ianto’s heart broke into a million pieces. Again.

Because, unlike Gwen, he knew exactly what that statement, coming from Jack, truly meant.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Jack walked out of the office into the main Hub area, his shoulders stiff with tension.

“Where are they with those coffees?” he muttered angrily.

Somewhere close by, a machine beeped. A machine wired up to that hand in the tank. The Doctor’s hand, although Ianto doubted that anyone else, with the possible exception of Tosh, would be aware of that.

_He_ knew, of course. The hand had been kept in the Secure Archives of Torchwood One, after all, from the Sycorax invasion up to the destruction of the Tower, in a special safe, created for the sole purpose of holding it. He’d seen it several times, doing inventory, and knew what it was. He’d wondered ever since how Jack had managed to lay hand on it. The locks must have malfunctioned, due to the extensive destruction of Torchwood Tower’s systems.

Jack suddenly held on and looked at the tank, in which the hand was now pulsing. He ran down the stairwell with the elegance of a festival dancer and stopped in front of the tank to check on it. He stared at the hand… and slowly began to smile.

At that very moment, an unnatural wind began to blow in the Hub, coming from somewhere above, ruffling his hair. Seconds later, Ianto heard it – that peculiar grinding, groaning noise he had heard many times from tape recording during his training year at Torchwood One.

It was the noise of the TARDIS, landing right before their doorstep – or right above their heads, depending on one’s location within the base. And then a rather unremarkable blue police box from the 1960s materialized on the Plass, parking right atop the invisible lift.

Ianto turned his attention from the external cameras back to the Hub, but Jack was no-where to see. The hand in the tank was gone, too… but Ianto had an educated guess where they might have gone. The Doctor was here – how could Jack have resisted the chance of meeting him again?

Following a sudden inspiration, Ianto left the tourist office and stepped out onto the Plass. He might not be able to confiscate the TARDIS at first sight, as Torchwood regulations still would demand, but he wanted at least to take a good look at it. Perhaps take some photos, too, for later, when the Doctor had left again, should Jack develop a sudden burst of nostalgia or homesickness after the TARDIS. Or Tosh, for that matter.

Jack, however, overtook him mid-way, running towards the blue box as if chased by dogs, with a big smile on his face. As if he had been running towards his future. As if he only had to reach out to get anything he had ever wanted. As if he had been heading for _home_.

He had obviously been prepared to leave any time, as he was carrying a fairly large backpack, too. That little detail made it very clear that he had been waiting for this moment for a very long time.

He had never wanted to stay with them. He had just been bidding his time, until the Doctor would arrive.

Ianto had never thought it could hurt so much. He’d have understood if Jack had left in anger and disappointment, at a whim of his heart, catching a glimpse of the TARDIS as his best means of getting off this pathetic little backwater planet. They had betrayed and killed him, after all. Repeatedly.

Ianto himself had used him and the Torchwood he had built after his own vision, hiding a half-converted Cyberwoman in his very basement, using the attraction between them and playing hard to get, just to keep Jack’s interest otherwise occupied. They might have moved on to a higher, more honest level, even became intimate in the backlash of the Suzie disaster, but that did not change the fact that Ianto had got his foot in the door through lies and deceit. Even if Tosh had helped him a bit, without his knowledge.

The others, too, all had their bigger or smaller lies, even sweet, loyal Toshiko. They were only human, after all. Still, they had all been together in the most recent, worst betrayal that had killed Jack twice and almost destroyed the entire planet. So yeah, Ianto could have understood if Jack had left in anger and disillusion.

But that was clearly _not_ the case. Jack was leaving in _joy_ , carrying a backpack that must have been kept, hidden and ready, under his desk for a very long time. His face was shining with hope and happiness – emotions Ianto had never seen on him in all the time he had been working for Torchwood Three, not in such pure, undulated form – like that of a small child on a birthday party.

“Doctor!” he cried out, running across the Plass, blind and deaf for anything – or anyone – else than the blue police box, parking right above the invisible lift. The TARDIS’ engines started grinding again; the unnatural wind came up anew, Jack’s greatcoat flapped like the sail of some ancient sailing ship in a violent storm. He was almost there.

Ianto turned around and walked back to the tourist office. He didn’t want to see Jack entering the TARDIS, deliriously happy to see the Doctor again, leaving them behind without a second thought. Or without a first one, for that matter.

And so, having turned his back to the events, he couldn’t see the TARDIS fading away, right before Jack could have touched it – _or_ Jack throwing himself into that emptiness in despair and vanishing from sight.


	2. Confrontations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how the arrival of the TARDIS _above_ on the Plass could cause such a mess _below_ , in the Hub, but it’s canon, so I used it. *g*
> 
> My version of the events at Canary Wharf that Tosh and Ianto are refrerring to can be read in "Eye Witness”, which is also available on this site.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER 02 – CONFRONTATIONS**

When Ianto entered the working area of the Hub, he found it in a disarray. Loose papers, blown off the various desks by the arrival of the TARDIS, lay scattered all over the floor; some of them were floating in the water at the foot of the water tower. He went over there like an automaton and picked them up absent-mindedly. They might be needed later, and who would have to redo them if they got destroyed? He himself, as usual.

The alarms sounded and the cog door rolled to the side, letting in Tosh and Owen, returning from their coffee run. Gwen, hearing the alarms, walked out of Jack’s office and down the stairs to meet them.

“Have you seen Jack on your way in?” she asked petulantly, not used to Jack walking out on her and leaving her behind.

Tosh shook her head. “No. I thought _you_ were with him,” and she shot Ianto a questioning look. Ianto shook his head very discretely and gave her their secret hand sing of _later_.

Owen looked around. “And _I thought_ Teaboy’s already cleaned up here,” he said nastily. “What’s the matter?” 

“Umm…” Gwen, too, looked around cluelessly. “He was just here,” she noticed the absence of the hand in the tank for the first time and became so deathly pale that her freckles seemed to burn in her face. “The hand… the hand’s gone… Something's taken it. _And_ Jack! He’s gone.”

“I don’t think so,” Ianto said, his voice incredibly soft but with an edge to it that drew the others’ attention to him at once. “In fact, I’m quite sure that he went willingly.”

“He wouldn't just leave us!” Gwen protested; somehow Ianto couldn’t quite shake off the feeling that she’d actually wanted to say _he’d never just leave me_, and felt a great amount of evil satisfaction contradicting her.

“You can check the CCTV footage is you don’t believe me.”

Tosh was already at it. She rewound the footage, and they could all watch Jack on the screen, running away from them, with a big, happy smile upon his face, without as much as a fleeting backward glance in the direction of the Hub.

“Look, Gwen!” Ianto demanded harshly, driven by the irresistible urge to hurt her feelings, just as she had so often and so thoughtlessly hurt _his_. “Look at his face! Does he look like a man who's being abducted?”

“But why?” she whispered, her eyes widening to impossible proportions, as always when she became over-emotional about something. “Why would he leave?”

Unfortunately for her, the wide-eyed routine didn’t work on Ianto. Neither did the trembling chin routine. He simply shrugged and turned away from her, to Tosh, who looked every bit as shaken and dejected as he felt. He took her hand and squeezed it encouragingly, signalling her that she wasn’t alone.

“Apparently, he saw no reason to stay,” Tosh said after a lengthy pause, in a soft and hurt voice. “I can’t really blame him… after what we’ve done, why would he want to stay?”

“I guess not even Teaboy’s arse was a good enough reason, eh?” Owen snarled.

Ianto knew the doctor was just lashing out in his pain and anger, but he wasn’t going to take Owen’s shit anymore.

“At least I wasn’t the one who shot him in he head,” he replied coldly. “Even though _I knew_ that he’d come back.”

The calculated cruelty of his answer stunned Owen for a moment. Then he jumped at Ianto in outrage, happy to have found an outlet for his pent-up frustration. Ianto elegantly sidestepped the attack; then he grabbed Owen’s injured shoulder and gave it a merciless squeeze. Owen howled in pain and rolled up into a tight ball of misery on the ground.

Gwen squawked in protest, but Ianto stopped her with a raised hand.

“Hold your shit, Gwen! I’m not taking it any longer. I’ve put up with a lot from the two of you because I owed it to Jack, but not anymore. So get it into that thick skull of yours: this was the moment Jack had waited for all the time. He never _wanted_ to work for Torchwood; had you not been too lazy and too ignorant to look into the old records, you could have figured it out long ago, too. He’d been _drafted_ ; it was that or the cells. He only stayed here to sit out the time of waiting.”

“But what was he waiting for?” Gwen asked tearily.

“For the right kind of Doctor,” Ianto replied slowly, giving her a meaningful look, making her understand that he’d witnessed their domestic little scene in the office.

For once, Gwen actually had the decency to look uncomfortable.

“The Doctor?” Tosh repeated, understanding dawning in her eyes. “Jack has left with the _Doctor_?”

Only she and Ianto had ever been privy to the knowledge that Jack had once been the travelling companion of the Doctor – the same time-travelling alien Torchwood had specifically been created to capture. Tosh because she, too, had travelled with the Time Lord for two years, before Jack would have met him in his personal timeline. Ianto because he had once been – and deep within still _was_ – an Archivist of Torchwood One, and it had been his job to know everything about Torchwood’s Number One enemy.

Even if declaring him an enemy might have been a slight exaggeration on Her Majesty The Queen Victoria’s side. Granted he _was_ an alien, and he could be a menace at times, but that didn’t make him an _alien menace_ per definition. Even though Ianto would never forgive him his marked indifference at Canary Wharf. That he had not even tried to help all those people who’d been half-transformed or controlled by those earpods.

“Well, I haven’t actually seen the _man_ he left with,” he answered to Tosh’s question, “but that old blue police box parking right on top of the invisible lift was a dead give-away. That and the sound of the TARDIS’ engines.”

“You recognized them from the old records?” Tosh smiled in understanding. 

Ianto shook his head. “No; I recognized it from memory. I was at Canary Wharf, remember? And so was the Doctor,” he added, his face hardening with the memory.

Tosh, who had also been present – accidentally – sighed. She had _not_ been happy with the Doctor’s behaviour during that crisis; and she was still missing _her_ Doctor, the previous incarnation of the Time Lord. But she was more willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, if for no other reason, then for old times’ sake.

Ianto, on the other hand, had no such old times to remember.

“Do you think he’s ever coming back?” Owen asked, pale and still shaking with pain and shock.

“No,” Ianto replied slowly. “No, I don’t think so. He’s finally reached his goal. He’s found his Doctor. After having waited for him for a century and a half, he finally found him. He won’t give up _that_ , just to chase Weevils with us.”

Gwen, having re-played the footage for what must have been the sixth time or so, sank into a chair and was sobbing uncontrollably.

“What are we gonna do now?” Owen muttered.

“What we always do: our jobs,” Ianto replied with a shrug.

“Without Jack?” Gwen demanded incredulously.

Ianto gave her an unfriendly look. “I don’t know about you, but _my_ work for Torchwood didn’t start with Jack Harkness. It doesn’t end with him, either. Jack’s gone, that’s what he wanted, so accept it, ‘cos it ain’t gonna change. But we still have a job to do, and we _must_ do it. More so than before, now that Jack no longer is there.”

“But _how_ are we supposed to do it?” Tosh asked.

“We’ll continue the same way we’ve worked so far,” Ianto replied with a shrug. “See how things work out. I don’t think we should make Jack’s disappearance public just yet.”

“Why not?” Gwen asked with a surprised frown. “We’ll need a new leader, and _somebody_ ought to be promoted.”

“ _If_ certain agencies learned that the last functional Torchwood branch has lost its leader, they’ll try to move on into our territory,” Ianto explained grimly. “Torchwood has gained an undeservedly bad reputation after Canary Wharf; only Jack’s personal connections saved _this_ outpost from being closed. Certain factions from UNIT wanted very much to take over watching the Rift.”

“And how could _you_ know that?” Owen muttered nastily. “Through pillow talk after shagging the boss?”

“I’m the Archivist,” Ianto replied, with barely suppressed anger in his eyes. “It’s my job to know such things. And, unlike certain people here, I take my job very seriously.”

“Ianto, wait!” Tosh interrupted, before the fight between the two men could have deteriorated into something _really_ ugly. “Let’s say we’re trying to go on as before. That would mean that we’ll need to do Jack’s job aside of our own. How do you expect us to do that? You and I are already overworked as it is, and Jack was dubbing for Suzie, since he never hired anyone in her stead.”

“He hired _me_!” Gwen protested.

Tosh gave her a scathing look. “And you are a weapons expert since when? You couldn’t even fire a gun before you came to Torchwood; and you aren’t particularly good with alien tech, either. So, how exactly are you replacing Suzie?”

“ _You_ are the tech expert,” Gwen shrugged. “I’m the police liaison.”

“Yeah, and you’ve done such a great job of it that none of the coppers would be willing to even speak to us anymore,” Owen muttered darkly.

Ianto didn’t find it necessary to inform their doctor that the Cardiff police still did speak to Torchwood… if _he_ was the one who did the asking. That was nobody’s business.

“We can only manage if we stick together,” he said placatingly. “I’m willing to take on Jack’s administrative duties, unless someone else wants them…” he looked around questioningly, but there were obviously no takers.

“We’re field agents,” Owen commented. “You’re the admin…”

“… and the only one who knows how to do them properly anyway,” Tosh added, loyal soul that she was. “But Ianto, you’re already doing the work of three people at the very least, how are you planning to do even more?”

“We’ll have to organize things better,” Ianto said. “I’m not going to clean up after you lot any longer; you’re grown-ups, and grown-ups should be capable of putting their pizza boxes into the trash bin or washing their coffee mugs alone. We can take turns at doing the food runs and feeding the Weevils… or cleaning out the cells. I’ll keep taking care of Myfanwy, as she’s likely to attack anyone else, but I won’t be your zookeeper if I have to stand in for Jack when dealing with other organizations.”

“Hey!” Owen protested. “Who’s made you our boss, all of the sudden? Since when do you get to assign additional work to us?”

“I’m the head of administration,” Ianto replied calmly. “It’s my job to keep things organized. If you’re not happy with the way I’m doing it, you’re welcome to take over all the paperwork – _including_ your own that I most certainly won’t be doing for you in the future. The same for you, Gwen,” he glanced at the pouting woman. “As a copper, you _must_ have been taught how to write a proper report, so do it. You haven’t done much actual work here since Jack hired you. Try to be a bit more useful for now.”

“You have no right to order me around!” Gwen scowled. “Owen is the one with the longest service record here, even if I was hired in Suzie’s stead.”

“Actually, it’s Tosh,” Owen corrected. “She was hired before me.”

“I don’t want the admin job,” Tosh murmured. “I suck at paperwork. And as the only tech left, I’ve got enough to do already, even without dubbing for Suzie as well, which I’ll have to do, now that Jack’s gone.”

“Besides, Tosh isn’t the one with the longest service record here,” Ianto added flatly.

Owen looked at him, bewildered. “Sure she is; she was recruited in late 2003. I was recruited in early 2005. That gives her more than a year of seniority on me.”

“Not on _me_ , though,” Ianto said. “I’ve been recruited by Torchwood London out of my first year at university, in February 2003. _I am_ the longest-serving Torchwood member here.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t Torchwood Three,” Gwen said.

“No,” Ianto agreed. “I was with Headquarters, which means I automatically outrank you all – not that it would really matter, since what we’ll have to do is trying to keep Jack’s absence secret, for the time being anyway.”

“I’m still not sure we can do it,” Owen said. “Or can you convincingly fake Jack’s signature?”

“Of course I can,” Ianto replied with a shrug. “I’d never have managed to get things done in time otherwise, lazy as he was with doing his paperwork.”

“So that’s what we’re gonna do?” Gwen demanded. “Cheating and lying, just to cover for Jack, who’s run away from his duty? From _us_?”

Again, it suspiciously sounded as if she’d wanted to say _from me_ instead, but no-one really cared.

“We’ll _obfuscate_ ,” Ianto answered with emphasis, “in the unlikely case that Jack might come back, after all. If he doesn’t, not in the next six months, we’ll have to work out a different strategy. Right now, though, we _must_ pretend that he’s still here somewhere… just extremely busy. Otherwise the Crown might find it necessary to close us, as Torchwood London was closed, and hand over everything to UNIT – which is not something we would want, right?”

Tosh and Owen nodded in complete agreement. Gwen, though, looked even more confused than before.

“Oh, I'm sorry, sorry,” she said nervously, “I get a bit confused. Which one's UNIT? All these abbreviations make my head spin.”

Owen rolled his eyes, “You _never_ read any of the boody memos, do you? You should give them a try, you know; it might make you look a mite less retarded.”

“UNIT is the acceptable face of intelligence gathering on aliens,” Ianto intervened in his best Archivist mode before the fight between the two could have escalated. “The abbreviation stands for Unified Intelligence Taskforce. It’s a military organization, operating under the auspices of the United Nations, and its purpose is to investigate and combat paranormal and extraterrestrial threats to the Earth.”

At this point, Gwen’s eyes bulged a little and became slightly glassy, but Ianto continued mercilessly.

“Until the late 1970s, Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart was in charge of the British contingent of UNIT, which is under the purview of the British government's Department C19.”

“Which was actually the best era of UNIT,” Owen commented. “The old man was remarkably level-headed when it came to dealing with alien invasions, if one can trust the old reports. This new batch of UNIT brasses tends to be a little heavy-handed; not to mention complete assholes.”

“Since then, a number of different staff officers followed him in that position,” Ianto said in a pedantic tone, “but he’s still called back from his retirement whenever a countrywide crisis arises. Fortunately, he’s been a supporter of Jack’s for quite a few years, but not even his influence might be enough if UNIT figures out that we’re on our own.”

The explanations seemed to confuse Gwen even more.

“I don’t understand,” she complained. “If we’re on the same side, why can’t UNIT know that Jack’s gone? Why would they want to take over our base? They don’t have jurisdiction here… do they?”

“In theory?” Owen asked. “No, they don’t. But once they have moved in with all their red-capped soldiers and big guns, we wouldn’t have a rat’s chance to get rid of them again.”

“There’s always been competition between the two organizations,” Ianto explained patiently. “They only left us alone so far because Jack was favoured by the Brigadier, even against Yvonne Hartman. But they would not tolerate a small group of civilians, some of whom didn’t even have proper training,” his side glance at Gwen made it clear which one of them he meant, “in charge of what’s probably the most dangerous place in Great Britain. And without Headquarters to weigh in backing up our claim we’d find ourselves fired and Retconned in no time.”

“Or worse,” Tosh added quietly. “They’re ruthless, Gwen, They might have a similar agenda, but you wouldn’t want to be at their mercy. “I know _I wouldn’t_.”

“Neither would I,” Ianto agreed. “So, it will be the best for us all if we kept up appearances and continued as before. Who knows, Jack may even have a change of heart eventually and come back.”

“You don’t really believe _that_ , though, do you?” Tosh asked quietly.

“No,” Ianto admitted, “but I don’t want to rule out the possibility, either. Miracles happen.”

In the next moment, the Rift alarm went off, and the three field agents (plus one head admin) had to run out to deal with multiple Weevil sightings.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Dealing with whatever the still hiccuping Rift spat out took them the rest of the day. They had to collect four Weevils from three different locations – fortunately, they were just frightened strays that let themselves usher back to the sewers without much reluctance. However, two of them were not yet equipped with tracking chips, so that, too, had to be done. Which meant that Owen had to run back to the Hub for the chipping equipment, while Ianto tried to keep the frightened creatures under control, armed with a stun gun and a can of Weevil spray only.

To the amazement of a mildly shocked PC Andy (he was the one who had called them in the first place) he managed _not_ to get eaten or maimed during that time.

Then they had to pick up a small colony of what Jack called _those spidery mice things_ that had somehow found their way into a school library and nearly scared the elderly librarian lady to death. Tosh couldn’t understand why. Granted, they _did_ look like six-inch spiders with silver fur and a long tail, but they were actually rather cute, with those twitchy, mouse-like little ears and the four pairs of gleaming dark eyes.

Gwen, for her part, completely agreed with the librarian lady. She found the creatures creepy and felt herself justified in her dislike when she learned from Tosh that Jack hated the things, too. There was a total of eight of them, and they were disturbingly friendly… clingy even. They seemed to particularly like Ianto and his suit.

It was past midnight when they finally returned to the Hub, shutting the one Weevil that had refused to cooperate away in a cell and the spidery mice in a terrarium in Jack’s office. Temporarily. Ianto was planning to move them to some kind of alien zoo later that was better suited to take in small, harmless alien creatures.

Gwen was the first one to leave; but not for home as all the others had assumed. Instead, she waited until even Ianto had left, sometime around 3 am, and sneaked back into the Hub, heading directly to Jack’s office.

She knew there had to be a medium-sized book somewhere. A book containing all important phone numbers, from the official places Jack had to deal with on a regular basis. Starting with the hotline to the Prime Minister’s office.

She _needed_ those lists. Ianto was clearly planning a _coup d’état_ to take over Torchwood, that sneaky little traitor! And Tosh and Owen would just let him! Well, Gwen Cooper was not going to roll over for him! She had been hired in Suzie’s place; not to become some dull-minded tech, but to be Jack’s second-in-command, the one to step in and take charge when Jack was hindered.

In times like now.

Tosh and Owen weren’t any real competition for her. They were specialists, after all; they needed to do their actual jobs. And besides, they didn’t have any people-oriented skills. Owen perhaps might have had some, back when he used to be a real doctor, but there clearly wasn't much left of _that_. He’d realize that it would be much better for the team if Gwen dealt with the local authorities _and_ the police, respectively. From there on, getting assigned as the new leader of Torchwood Cardiff would only be a logical step.

But Ianto! Ianto was sneaky and apparently a lot more ambitious than she’d have given him credit for. Plus, he clearly had connections, so she had to be very careful when dealing with him, at least until she had gained enough support from higher places.

She wished she could Retcon him back to kindergarten and be done with the problem, but considering that _Ianto_ was the one who kept the amnesia pills in safe storage, that was not an option. She’d been lucky that she had been able to pilfer the few left on Jack’s desk a couple of weeks ago, when he’d made Rhys forget about her infidelity.

So, as she could not get rid of Ianto on her own, she needed connections, too. Perhaps at the highest places that were aware of the existence of Torchwood, to work against his influence. Someone from UNIT, perhaps; they apparently had a lot of power. Or the head of the City Council. Or an aide from the Prime Minister’s office.

She sneaked into Jack’s office – and almost got a heart attack from the multiple chirping sounds that greeted her. Those spidery mice… _things_ gathered at the nearest glass wall of their terrarium, watched her from those very bright, multi-faceted eyes, and chirped away excitedly. Gwen shuddered; she could understand why Jack hated them so much.

She searched Jack’s desk hurriedly and was relieved when she found the phone book in one of the drawers. Getting out her mobile phone, she started taking photos, from each page where any numbers were marked.


	3. Proposals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dialogue between Rhys and his father is from the 2nd season Torchwood episode “Something Borrowed”, of course, while Gwen’s comment about nobody else wanting to have her from “Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang” – although in a different context.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER 03 – PROPOSALS**

When Rhys Williams learned about Captain Jack Harkness having gone missing, the first thing he felt was relief. Utter and overwhelming relief. Now that Gwen’s irritating, demanding and flirtatious boss had vanished off the face of Earth without a trace, he could finally hope that the wedding Gwen had put off repeatedly would take place, after all.

Energized by that hope, he ran off to buy the engagement ring at once. It was a very pretty piece: gold, with a perfect, small diamond, and it cost him quite a batch of money. But now that he’d finally gotten that job he’d been working for so diligently for years – manager at _Harwood’s_ – he could afford such indulgences.

His parents weren’t exactly overjoyed about it… to phrase it carefully. They’d never liked Gwen, and they liked Gwen’s _parents_ even less. Especially her mother who, Rhys would be the first to admit freely, _was_ a poisonous snake of extraordinary proportions and held her husband securely under her thumb. Said husband was, at least, a genuinely friendly bloke, and a rather smart one, too – save for the fact that he was completely fallen for his wife.

“It takes one to know one,” muttered Barry Williams, still not entirely reconciled with the choice of his only son. “You should take a good, hard look at the mother before marrying the daughter, Rhys. That would give you a sobering glimpse into your own future.”

Rhys, however, was not willing to listen to the voice of reason.

“Dad, leave it,” he said angrily. “I’m marrying her! I love Gwen. Every atom of me loves Gwen, has done since the first time I laid eyes on her, okay? I never wanted anyone else.”

“You loved Cerys Morgan once,” his father pointed out.

Rhys rolled his eyes. “I was _twelve_ years old, Dad!”

“You had more common sense at the age of twelve than you have now,” his father commented dryly. “But it’s your life, son. I can’t hinder you in ruining it.”

“You’re right; you can’t!” Rhys returned, storming off in righteous anger.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
And so it came that on that very evening Rhys Williams went down on one knee in front of his beloved Gwen and asked her to marry him. The romantic gesture was somewhat ruined by the fact that he promptly got a twinge in his back and had to lie on the couch for the rest of the evening, of course. But Gwen said yes nonetheless.

“Well, no-one else would have me,” she explained her best friends, Carrie and Trina, two days later, in their favourite pub.

She’d known the girls from her time _before_ the police. They’d worked together in a shop – and hated it. Since then, Carrie had married a civil servant from the City Hall, and Trina had been engaged to the middle-aged manager of _St. David’s Hotel_ for nearly five months by now. So Gwen really had to do _something_ if she didn’t want to lose her last chance to catch up with them.

Besides, being a married woman did have its advantages.

“What about that boss of yours you’ve been fawning over for the last year or so, though?” Trina asked in surprise. “I thought you were on the best way to catch him,” her eyes turned dreamy. “I can’t blame you, really. I only saw him once, but… he’s _gorgeous_! Like a film star!”

“He’s also, unfortunately, quite gay,” Carrie commented. The other two stared at her in surprise, and she shrugged. “Well, Huw” – that was her husband – “saw him flirting like crazy with Mr. Grainger’s PA – and everyone in the City Hall knows that Idris Hopper is the gayest person in town.”

“Jack’s _not_ gay!” Gwen protested. “Sure, he’d shag everything on two legs, but he isn’t gay! He just… he doesn’t have the same moral restrictions as most people. He’s the biggest man-slut on this planet.”

“So that’s why you chose Rhys instead him?” Trina asked.

“No,” Gwen replied teary-eyed. “I chose Rhys cos Rhys has always been there for me. Through all this madness that’s my life now, even when I haven't even deserved it. I need someone I can trust. Someone I can count on, no matter what.”

“Does it mean your boss is not reliable?” Trina pressed on.

“He’s left us, that bastard!” Gwen blurted out. “He’s left without a word, and we have no idea where he’s gone and when he’ll be back… if ever.”

“Oh, dear!” Carrie gasped. “Who’s running the show at your company now? I mean, you’re Special Ops or whatever, you can’t just quit or whatnot!”

“Right now?” Gwen sighed. “I’m trying to do my best. Unofficially, of course. We cannot admit just yet that he’s gone. It’s… complicated. But if he doesn’t come back in the next six weeks, I’ll apply the request to be made the official team leader.”

“You can actually do _that_?” Trina was duly impressed.

“Well, I’ve been hired instead of Jack’s second-in-command, right after she’d died more than a year ago,” Gwen replied with a shrug. “It would be only proper if I got appointed as the new leader of our team. But it would be a mistake to act right away; Jack could still come back, and even if he doesn’t, I’ll have to show the others that I can run things on my own just fine.”

Holding her head high, she swayed over to the bar to fetch the next round of drinks, it being her turn now. Carrie and Trina exchanged meaningful looks.

“Poor Gwen,” Carrie said with the false sympathy of a married woman towards a less fortunate friend who still had to find her way to the haven of wedded bliss. “And she was _so_ sure she’d get her boss around, eventually.”

“I wonder,” Trina’s eyes got that speculative look as always when she was about to say something _really_ mean. “If he was really such a big slut, how comes that Gwen never managed to get in his pants? Unless you’re right and he _is_ gay, of course.”

“It certainly wasn’t for the lack of trying,” Carrie agreed. “But apparently, even the biggest sluts have their standards.”

The two giggled a little over Gwen’s delusions. They might have been best friends with her, but Gwen had always held herself for something better. It was, well, _satisfying_ that she’d have to put up with Rhys, after all, instead of that gorgeous boss of hers.

Not that there was anything wrong with Rhys, they agreed. He was a nice bloke, with a good job, and he worshipped the ground Gwen walked on. Hell, he even did all the housework and could cook like a pro! Only Gwen couldn’t quite value what she had in him, always dreaming for somebody more spectacular – like her boss.

Now she’d clearly decided to go for the sure thing she had; the only question was if it would be enough for her in the long way.

Somehow both Carrie and Trina had their doubts about that.

“By the way,” Trina said slowly, “don’t you think that Mr. Grainger might be interested in what’s going on with Torchwood? He’s head of the City Council, after all, and responsible for the safety of Cardiff. If something is wrong with Torchwood…”

Carrie gave her an uncomfortable look. “You want me to go behind Gwen’s back?”

“I don’t _want_ it,” Tina clarified. “She’s my friend, too. But if any Special Ops troops are running wild, without a proper leader, Mr. Grainger ought to know it.”

“You think he could do anything about it?” Carrie asked doubtfully. “I mean, they’re Special Ops, or something like that; they don’t answer to the City Council or whatever. ‘Outside the government, beyond the police’… aint that what Gwen always tells us?”

“And her word is all you have for it,” Trina reminded her. “She can be wrong; but even if she’s right, Mr. Grainger might know what questions to ask – and _whom_ to ask.”

“True,” Carrie lowered her voice, seeing that Gwen was heading back with their drinks. “Tell you what: I’ll speak with Huw about it; let him decide what to do. He’s a civil servant; it’s his job to deal with shit like this.”

“That may be the best,” Trina agreed; and then they could no longer talk about the problem, because Gwen was back, handing them the drinks.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Thirty-six hours after the girls’ bar night Idris Hopper, personal assistant to Council Leader Patrick Grainger, was having a serious conflict of interests.

On the one hand, he was deeply in Mr. Grainger’s depth – the only one from the city leaders who was willing to keep him, despite the fact that he’d been the secretary of the ill-remembered Margaret Blaine. The very woman who’d nearly blown up the whole city and half of South Wales with her poorly planned nuclear plant and subsequently vanished without a trace.

Never mind that Idris hadn’t had the faintest idea about, nor any part in Mayor Blaine’s megalomaniac plans. He was still there, and thus he’d offered a convenient target for Blaine’s opposition. Even though there was very little anybody could have done afterwards.

Mr Grainger had been the only one who’d believed in Idris’ innocence and even gone as far as assigning him as his own personal assistant. As he’d pointed out, Mrs Grainger considered an openly gay man a lot less of a threat than some pretty young girl with ambitions to become the next Mrs Grainger.

On the other hand, Ianto Jones from Torchwood was an old friend of his, and he didn’t want the younger man to get in trouble.

“I really don’t know what to do,” he confessed to Claire Lyndon, his only personal friend among the City Hall staff. “Mr Grainger needed to know about the Torchwood leader vanishing, there’s no question about that. But if they wanted to keep it confidential, at least for the time being, they must have had a reason; a good one. And if Mr Grainger starts asking questions in the wrong places – or in the _right_ places, for that matter – they could get in serious trouble.”

“Hmmm,” Claire thought about the problem while sipping on her coffee.

She was a woman of beauty, elegance and refined tastes, but she had even more inside that pretty head of hers than most would have expected. How she could have married David Lyndon, the single most boring and least attractive man in Cardiff, was beyond Idris’ understanding. She was so _smart_ in everything _else_ – how could she have made such a poor choice?

There was definitely a great deal of truth in the saying that love was blind.

“Are you really sure that these Torchwood blokes aren’t up to something sinister?” she finally asked.

Idris nodded without hesitation. “Yes, I’m very sure. Torchwood has been here since the nineteenth century; I’ve checked in the archives. They only ever answered to the Crown, but never did anything that would have endangered the city’s population. Obviously, we’re not that sure _what_ they’re doing, but they’re supposed to be the good guys.”

“If you say so,” Claire didn’t seem completely persuaded.

“Besides, I’ve known Ianto Jones since primary school,” Idris continued. “He’s never been anything but a decent bloke. I don’t think he’d be involved in anything illegal.”

“Perhaps not _illegal_ ,” Claire allowed, “but definitely dangerous.”

Idris shrugged. “That’s their job, as I understand. But I don’t want any of their operations endangered, just because Huw’s brainless little wife heard something from an equally brainless friend of hers.”

“And where did this friend of hers hear anything about Torchwood’s secrets?” Claire asked with a frown.

Idris shrugged again. “Apparently, she’s Torchwood, too.”

“And she talks about confidential stuff with her friends?” Claire was clearly _not_ impressed, and how could one blame her? As the secretary of the Mayor she knew well enough what _confidential_ meant. Had _she_ done something stupid like that, she could have kissed her job good-bye on the spot.

“It seems so, yeah,” Idris replied, wondering how Torchwood dealt with confidentiality if _this_ was any indication.

“Then she’s a liability, and you need to warn this Jones character,” Claire said. “Who knows what other trouble she might cause?”

Idris thought about that for a moment, and then he nodded decisively. If Huw’s brainless wife was any indication, that friend of hers at Torchwood must have been a menace.

“You’re right,” he said. “That’s what I’m gonna do.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Despite his relative youth, Ianto had a tightly organized mind. He had to; otherwise his photographic memory would long have driven him mad. He’d had to learn early on to select all the billion things he remembered, order them by importance and put them away for further use.

Or to ignore them safely for the rest of his life, no matter how long – or how _short_ , considering that he was working for Torchwood – _that_ might be.

As a result, the rest of his life was tightly organized, too. He freely admitted being a tad too pedantic and entirely anal-retentive, but he never failed to add that there were worse habits. _Far_ worse ones.

Besides, others benefited from the order kept by him, too, didn’t they?

Lisa had been the first – and so far only – person who’d ever managed to break him out of his self-inflicted cage of perfect order and continuous readiness to face whatever life might throw at him. With her, he’d been able to relax and forget his petty concerns – as far as he was capable of forgetting.

At least he could _ignore_ things with her and feel like other young men his age. For the first – and so far last – time in his life, he’d known happiness.

Losing Lisa, and that twice, the second time so much worse than the first, had broken something in him. Something that could never be fixed again.

Oh, he _had_ put himself together during his suspension. Had even, surprisingly enough, developed a tentative friendship with Jack. But the walls of his self-built cage had gone up again, and it didn’t seem as if they would lower themselves any time soon.

Or ever again.

Becoming intimate with Jack had not changed things. On the contrary. Most of the time, Jack was chaos personified, a force of nature, and if he didn’t want to lose himself completely, Ianto had to hold onto the hypothetical bars of his cage.

In that cage, in that order, there was stability that could help him standing in the whirlwind that was Jack Harkness.

There _had_ been quiet moments of closeness, in which they could have connected on a different level. That unfortunate affair with the fairies… Ianto had been the only one who’d truly understood Jack. He’d seen him shattered by the cold shoulder his team had shown him, hurting deeply by Gwen’s vicious accusations.

He’d held him, offering wordless support while Jack cried.

But those moments had been rare and far between, and they were too often interrupted by a Rift alarm, some unexpected disaster – or Gwen’s constant demands for Jack’s exclusive attention.

With that, he could never compete. Being loud-mouthed, demanding and aggressive was not his forte. It had never been, and after the loss of Lisa, he didn’t even bother to try.

Nothing could have brought her back anyway.

The others didn’t understand how he could have replaced Lisa with Jack so quickly. Not even sweet, loyal Toshiko, who’d loved them both dearly. Their minds didn’t work along the same lines as his.

Lisa was lost, gone forever. There was nothing he could have done about that. So he’d stored his memories of her, the wonderful _and_ the horrible ones, in their proper place, where he could visit them whenever he wanted.

Torchwood One psychic training was very effective, even on the basic level mandatory for all employees. The Archivists, having been more important than anyone else, had trained with the best. So yes, Ianto could _choose_ the memories he wanted to revisit from time to time, even though he would never be able to forget any of them.

Unless he suffered serious brain damage, but in that case it wouldn’t really count anymore, would it?

But he couldn’t _live_ in his memories. So he’d stored them safely away and accepted what Jack was offering. Comfort sex was not the worst way to deal with emotional trauma, especially when offered by a true master.

It would have been hypocritical to deny that Jack knew how to give a guy a good time. He might have been interested in Ianto’s body, mostly – as Owen had rubbed it in Ianto’s face so often – but his interest had been… _intense_. And creative. Bordering on the avant-garde. And Ianto freely admitted that he’d enjoyed Jack’s ministrations. Who wouldn’t have?

He even realized after a while that he was falling for Jack – which was a complication, but not one he couldn’t have dealt with in the long run. Not for the highly enjoyable sex alone; in their rare moments of closeness, he’d discovered Jack’s vulnerable side, a need that went much deeper than his overactive libido.

In the heart of his hearts, Jack liked to be taken care for, even to be pampered. It might have been a need born out of some terrible loss in his still nebulous past, or simply out of a harsh life he’d led earlier, but it was definitely there.

Ianto was willing to give him what he needed. What _Ianto_ needed was to be useful, to _be_ needed. On that – probably unhealthy – level of mutual dependence, they were a perfect match.

He’d never love Jack the way he’d loved Lisa. That part of him had died with her. But – thanks to his training in mental complementarization – he’d have been ready and willing to, not to mention capable of, developing a different kind of love… had Jack not left them.

But Jack _had_ left them, and as usual, it fell to Ianto to pick up the pieces. Owen was so guilt-ridden he could barely function anymore, and was almost constantly drunk. Tosh, also quite ravaged by guilt, tried to compensate by working twenty-four/seven and was overworked and on the verge of total exhaustion. She laboured in some sort of haze most of the time; the only way she could keep going.

And Gwen…

Ianto shuddered. Gwen’s attempts to play boss in Jack’s absence were becoming more of an annoyance with each passing day. That she didn’t realize that her little nightly trip to Jack’s office had been recorded by the internal security cameras was downright insulting. Did she think that they were, that _Ianto_ was an idiot?

Of course, she probably wasn’t even aware of the existence of an internal security system. She was fairly ignorant towards anything outside her personal interests; and besides, she wasn’t technically savvy. Perhaps she thought the general CCTV network was the only security system the base had. And since it was a known fact that there were no CCTV cameras in Jack’s office, she probably thought herself safe.

Ianto had checked the object of her interest, of course, and had been mildly shocked to realize that she’d been after Jack’s phone register. It was typical for Jack to let something confidential like that lie around freely in a desk drawer. He trusted his team, no matter how often they had disappointed him.

Plus, he hadn’t known he’d have to leave so abruptly.

Or he simply hadn’t cared, Ianto admitted to himself. They’d been but waystations on Jack’s long journey back to the Doctor. And when the chance finally came, he ran off without looking back.

Ianto rubbed his burning eyes tiredly. He’d have to watch those numbers in Jack’s phone register around the clock. Or rather have Tosh have Mainframe watch them. Whatever Gwen’s plans with those phone numbers might be, they could easily lead to a major disaster. Impulsive as she was, and mostly preoccupied with her own wishes, she might not even realize that.

The ringing of his phone interrupted his thoughts. He reached for it automatically, only to realize a moment later that the ring tone was the wrong one. That surprised him greatly.

Part of his tightly organized life was that he had two phones. One for everything Torchwood-related, which was the one he’d used most during the last two years. The other one was for family and for the very few personal friends he still had. In theory anyway.

And _that_ tone was ringing now. Curious. Who’d call him this late in the night?

He fished the phone out of the inner pocket of his suit jacket and stared at the displayed number in confusion. It seemed unfamiliar, which meant that it was one he wasn’t supposed to know. His memory worked with numbers particularly well. So, how could the caller know his personal number?

Well, there was only one way to find out. He shrugged and picked up the call. “Jones.”

“Idris Hopper,” a familiar voice answered. “Ianto, is that you? I wasn’t sure your number was still the same.”

“Yours certainly isn’t,” Ianto replied.

He hadn’t seen Idris for years – not since he’d left for London – but he had a different phone number associated to him.

“I’m calling from the City Hall,” Idris explained. “Moonlighting, as usual… I guess not an unknown thing to you, either.”

“Not really,” Ianto admitted.

“Anyway,” Idris said, “we must talk. In private.”

“About what?” Ianto really didn’t have a clue what his old school friend might want from him, after all those years.

“Not now,” Idris interrupted. “Listen, can you meet me in say, thirty minutes, at the _Old Sailor_? It’s… quite urgent, actually.”

“Urgent for whom?” Ianto asked. “Idris, are you in trouble?”

“No,” Idris said slowly, “but I’m afraid _you_ might be; all of you.”

Ianto was genuinely shocked by that. “That’s… a bold statement,” he said.

“I know,” Idris sounded quite nervous. “Listen, I can’t speak here. We really, really should meet in person.”

Ianto closed his eyes for a moment. It was nearly midnight, and he’d been awake for almost thirty hours. He felt like death warmed over and wanted nothing but a hot shower and his bed.

On the other hand, if Idris saw it necessary to call him, out of the blue, after _years_ , he perhaps should listen. Whatever other people might think of the young clerk, Idris Hopper was not a coward.

“All right,” Ianto said tiredly. “I’ll be there.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The _Old Sailor_ was a slightly seedy, traditional pub near the Mermaid Quay; one that the tourists would never find. One of the few that were open all night. It was for the locals, and Ianto found some strange comfort in that fact. The wood-panelled walls, the flashing slot machine at his back, the simply-clad men drinking their beer… all this had a reassuring touch of normalcy to it, something that he desperately needed right now.

He found Idris Hopper, wearing a suit that was well-fitted but definitely had been worn for too long, sitting at one of the corner tables, holding a lager with both hands. He looked as tired as Ianto felt, and seemed very uncomfortable with the situation – whatever it was.

Ianto got himself a beer, too, and plunged down on the stool opposite his old school friend rather heavily. Exhaustion could do that to a person.

“So, Idris,” he said. “I’m here. “What’s so important that you decided to hunt me down after how many years? Four? Five?”

“Closer to six, actually,” Idris shrugged, “but who counts? Listen, Ianto, I could get in really big trouble over this, but I think you should know. Even if _I’m_ not supposed to…”

“Should know _what_?” Ianto asked patiently. Idris clearly hadn’t outgrown the habit to babble when nervous.

“Sorry,” Idris took a big gulp from his lager. “I’m really out of my depth here. Tell me; is it true that Captain Harkness is gone? That he left you without a word?”

Ianto stiffened in shock hearing that. What on Earth…

“You’re right,” he said after the necessary moment to collect himself again. “You’re _not_ supposed to know that. Nobody outside of Torchwood is. So how comes that you _know_ about it?”

“Eavesdropping,” Idris admitted, reddening in embarrassment. “Huw Cadman, one of the civil servants, came to see Mr Grainger today – well, yesterday by now – and told him. Apparently, his wife knows somebody from Torchwood, somebody she used to work with in some fashion boutique or whatnot, and they had a ladies’ night in a bar, and then that other woman got drunk and whined about it to the others. Huw says his wife says that the chick was very upset because she had hopes concerning her boss, you see.”

Ianto closed his eyes to keep himself from screaming. Gwen. Gwen-bloody-Cooper, getting them into deep shit again, out of sheer, selfish stupidity. Did the woman ever think of the possible consequences? They’d expressly agreed to keep Jack’s disappearance confidential, and the stupid cow tells her lady friends in a bar?

“I’m gonna kill her,” he muttered. “Slowly and very, very painfully.”

“So, is it true?” Idris asked, his guileless blue eyes darkening in concern. “Is Captain Harkness gone?”

“Ianto nodded. “Yes. He left on a covert mission rather abruptly; not even we know why and for how long. So we’ve decided to shut up about it until we learn more. Or, at least, I _thought_ we’d agreed,” he added venomously.

“I imagined that something like that must have happened,” Idris said. “I’m surprised, though, that somebody from your own organization would be so careless. You should do something about it before she causes any more harm.”

“Do what?” Ianto asked bitterly. “I don’t have the authorization to do _anything_. Jack’s second-in-command has been killed a year or so ago, and he never appointed a new one. He tends to be a tad cavalier in his dealings with regulations, and that attitude has now come back and bitten us in the arse.”

“Don’t you have any higher authorities you could turn to?” Idris asked.

Ianto shook his head. He _wished_ One would still be there; he wouldn’t hesitate to ask for instructions, even if Jack would skin him alive for it afterwards. Of course, if One were still there, _he_ wouldn’t be in Cardiff to begin with. He’d be in London – married to Lisa, most likely.

He shook off such pointless thoughts and concentrated on explaining the situation to Idris without giving away anything his old school friend wouldn’t know from the media anyway. Idris deserved some sort of answer – he had, after all, taken considerable risk to warn him. Perhaps having an ally inside the City Hall wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

“Headquarters has been destroyed a couple of years ago; it was situated in Canary Wharf, you know, and…” he shrugged, letting Idris fill out the gaps as well as he could.

Idris, only familiar with the official version, nodded in understanding. 

“The terrorist bombing, yeah, I heard about that. It was a horrible thing, they say,” then he stopped abruptly and Ianto could almost see the wheels whirling in his head as he was trying to match data and events of the recent past. “Wait a minute, weren’t you in London at that time?”

“Yep,” if Ianto hoped that the monosyllabic answer would stop Idris, he was disappointed. Idris had always been clever and could never resist some good, old-fashioned detective work, based on pure deduction in Sherlock Holmes-style.

“You were working for the London branch, haven’t you?” again, Ianto nodded. “Were you at Canary Wharf when it happened?”

Again, a brief nod, and Idris’ face crumpled in compassion.

“It must have been terrible,” he said. “I heard there were only twenty-some survivors, out of how many? Seven hundred? Seven hundred and fifty?”

“More than eight hundred, all together,” Ianto replied tonelessly. “And even those who did get out wouldn’t all make it. Some of us simply went mad. Others committed suicide. Right now, I only know about a dozen of us who’re still functioning normally – well, as normally as one can after having seen what we saw.”

“You keeping tab on the others?” Idris asked.

Ianto sighed. “Somebody has to; and as the only one still working for Torchwood, I’m in the best position to do that.”

He didn’t feel inclined to mention that Jack couldn’t be care less whether the survivors of Canary Wharf – Yvonne’s leftovers, as he called them – lived or died. Nonetheless, it was surprisingly liberating to discuss this with somebody who had no knowledge about the real facts and was simply sympathetic to their losses.

Idris had always been like that, even as a young boy. It was a shame that people hardly ever paid him back in the same coin. Ianto had to admit that he hadn’t been such a shining exception from that rule, himself. And yet Idris had taken considerable risks to warn him, although they hadn’t talked to each other for years.

“What I still don’t understand,” said Idris after a lengthy pause, “is why you would want to keep Captain Harkness’s disappearance such a big secret. He does have the authority to come and go, doesn’t he? According to the old city records, Torchwood’s only ever answered to the Crown.”

“True,” Ianto said. “But we’re supposed to send reports to UNIT _and_ to the Prime Minister’s office, and as we can’t guarantee that Jack would be back at any given time, other organizations might try to move in to our territory. UNIT, for example. Or MI5.”

“And that would be such a bad thing?” 

Idris knew, of course, what UNIT was – the red berets were very visible, even if their true purpose not disclosed to the population. Besides, he worked for the City Hall; more accurately, to Mr Grainger, who did deal with the commander of the local UNIT base on a semi-regular basis.

“It would be disastrous,” Ianto paused, collecting his thoughts. “Look, I can’t give you any details, but… We’re a small team, with a very specific task that requires certain skills and a kind of special training no one else has. With Headquarters gone, we are the only still functioning branch; the only ones to know how to deal with the shit we’re dealing with. No matter how efficient those other organizations are, they can’t do it half as well as we do.”

Which wasn’t very good, but he was not about to tell Idris _that_.

“That wouldn’t stop them trying to take over, though,” Idris was getting the picture.

Ianto nodded. “And with Jack beyond our reach, there’s no way to stop them, unless Her Majesty appoints a new leader for Torchwood.”

“Shouldn’t you contact the Crown, then?” Idris asked. “Perhaps a pre-emptive strike is exactly what you guys need to keep the situation under control.”

“Perhaps,” Ianto allowed. “But Jack might be back within reasonable time, and I don’t want to rob him of the chance to set things straight again. He is our boss, after all.”

“But if he doesn’t come back, soon, you’d lose your chance to protect your team,” Idris warned him. “Vacancies in power always make people on the upper levels nervous. And nervous people tend to react harder than necessary.”

“I know,” Ianto sighed. “Which is why we decided to wait a few months. See if he returns. If not, I’ll be forced to turn to the Crown. That was the plan anyway. Now, with Gwen having babbled, I’ll have to think of something else.”

“I thought you didn’t have the authority,” Idris said.

“I don’t. But I know more about the internal politics than the others, having worked for Headquarters, so they listen to me.”

“Save for that stupid git who babbled,” Idris reminded him.

Ianto shrugged. “She never listens to anyone. Hell, she routinely ignored Jack’s orders most of the time.”

“And Captain Harkness hasn’t fired him? Why not?”

“That’s a question I keep asking myself,” Ianto admitted. “This Mr Grainger of yours – do you think he’ll do something drastic with the information he’s got?”

“I’m not sure,” Idris said. “He’s a good, decent man, who wouldn’t willingly harm anyone. But if he thinks this new situation might endanger the city, he wouldn’t hesitate to ask questions. In high places.”

“Well, I can’t blame the man for doing his job,” Ianto sighed. “I’d probably do the same in his place. Thanks for warning me anyway. I owe you one.”

“Remember that when I lose my job because of this,” Idris replied, but he was smiling. “You don’t happen to need a good PA at Torchwood, do you?”

“I’m afraid _that_ position is currently occupied,” Ianto answered with a tried grin. “I say let’s rather concentrate on _not_ getting you fired. Believe me, you’re better off with your current job. Even if you have to work with idiots.”

“Probably,” Idris allowed reluctantly. “I’m just fed up with people treating me like shit, you know? Whatever Mayor Blaine did, it wasn’t _my_ fault. And besides, your Captain Harkness and that weird bloke dealt with the problem.”

“Jack dealt with Mayor Blaine?” Ianto asked in surprise. “I never heard about that.”

“Yes, right, I forgot that you were still in London when we had that earthquake. Anyway, that bloke – big nose, big ears, piercing blue eyes, wearing a black leather jacket – just walked into my office with your boss and asked for the Mayor. Only that she didn’t want to see them, so I had to stall them while she attempted to escape through her office window.”

Ianto needed a moment to let _that_ mental image sink in. He might have been in London at the time of the earthquake, but he’d seen photos of the – probably late and entirely unlamented – Margaret Blaine. The idea of _that_ woman pressing herself through an office window – through _any_ window, in fact, save probably a floor-to-ceiling French window – was mind-boggling.

He mentally chastised himself for never having looked up the events connected to the Cardiff earthquake and the subsequent fall of Mayor Blaine. If Jack had been involved – and why would Idris lie about that? – it must have been more than just a political scandal about a shabbily constructed nuclear plant. Much more.

It was clearly something alien-related, but what? And who’d been the ‘weird bloke’ with the big ears?

He made a mental list of the people who could probably tell him more about the background of that particular crisis. The list turned out a depressingly short one: Jack was gone, Suzie was dead, Owen was fairly useless at the moment, and Gwen hadn’t even been with Torchwood at that time – not that he’d ever ask Gwen for _reliable_ information anyway. Gossip, yes, but nothing that would really count.

Tosh, though, had already worked for Torchwood during the earthquake, hadn’t she? And she might be willing to tell him, unless she’d been sworn to secrecy. Deciding to ask Tosh at the first suitable moment, Ianto rose from his stool.

“I’m beat,” he declared. “If I go home right now, I might be able to catch three or four hours of sleep before I have to go back to work. Thanks for everything, Idris; and don’t wait another six years before calling me again. We should meet more often. We used, to, once.”

“The way goes in both directions,” Idris replied. “But yeah, getting together from time to time would be nice. I don’t have so many friends that I wouldn’t find a niche for you in my social calendar.”

His voice was bitter and dripping with sarcasm; that of a very lonely young man who’d grown used to be ignored and unappreciated, but not used enough to ignore the fact in turn. It made Ianto feel vaguely guilty. Surely, they’d drifted away since grammar school, especially after he’d gone to London, but he’d been back to Cardiff for over a year by now and never thought of seeking out Idris.

That had to change… and not for Idris’ sake alone.

“When we’ve dealt with this problem, I’ll call you,” he promised; and he meant it. 

Having friends of his own age, friends who’d known him pre-Torchwood, would be nice Having some kind of life outside Torchwood would be nice, too – although most likely not possible, unless you were Gwen Cooper who could get away with everything. 

Still, he could sell his renewed friendship with Idris Hopper under the label of rebuilding lost contacts with the local authorities.

Idris nodded. “Yeah, it would do me no good to be seen with you right now. Not before you’ve dealt with your domestic crisis. But after that…”

“After that I’ll call you,” Ianto promised with a heartfelt yawn that nearly dislocated his jaw. “Sorry. I’m dead on my feet.”

“Need a lift home?” Idris offered. “My car stands in the parking lot of the pub; and you really shouldn’t be driving in this condition.”

“You’re probably right,” Ianto admitted, swaying a little on his feet. “You sure you don’t mind, though? You’ve got a long way, too.”

“Quite sure,” Idris rose, too, and buttoned his suit jacket. “It’s nice to leave a pub in the company of a friend every one in a while.”

And so they left together, strolling through the empty streets leisurely. At one point, Ianto swayed again, and Idris grabbed his arm to support him; it was a strangely comforting gesture, and he unconsciously leaned into it as they walked up to Idris’ car.

Neither of them noticed the dark figure following them from doorway to doorway, filming them with an infrared camera.


	4. Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to weis07 for coming up with the idea of Rhys’ nightmares.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER 04 – NIGHTMARES**

Rhys Williams was dreaming. For a man who’d finally brought up the courage to ask for the hand of the love of his life – and even got a positive answer – it wasn’t really surprising. A man on the threshold of wedded bliss was supposed to have X-rated dreams of his upcoming wedding night, wasn’t he?

Only that his dreams were not X-rated – unless there was such thing as X-rated nightmares, that is – neither had they anything to do with the planned wedding. They were nightmares all right; recurring ones.

He’d had them every night since the most recent earthquake, and they always came in the same order.

First, he was walking down endless corridors in some strange underground place. There were cells on both sides, with glass doors, and in the cells large-toothed monsters in jumpsuits, with faces like Halloween masks, howling in an eerie chorus.

Then, suddenly, he found himself in one of those cells, looking at Gwen through the glass. Gwen staring at him, teary-eyed, saying: _I’m sorry, Rhys, I truly am. I’ve cheated on you and drugged you, but it was all for your own good. I had to shut you in, to keep you safe, can’t you see it? Say that you forgive me! I need you to forgive me! Please!_

And then she was gone, replaced by a creepy little old man in an old-fashioned, dark suit, who walked through the thick security glass as if through water, saying: _I’m sorry, my boy, but this must be!_

And then there was a sharp pain piercing his guts, and he looked down at himself, watching with morbid fascination as his light blue shirt became soaked with blood. 

His blood.

Rhys gasped awake, drenched in cold sweat, and reached out for Gwen blindly. He needed to feel her solid presence to pull himself together again.

But the other half of the bed – Gwen’s side – was empty and cold, her nighties thrown onto the floor carelessly. She must have left hours ago.

Sighing, Rhys climbed out of his sweat-soaked bed to check the bedside table, in the hope that Gwen had left a notice about where she’d gone and when she’d been back. He found none. Not that that would have been anything new.

Ever since Captain Harkness had left, Gwen had been at home less than before. Oh, there were always reasonable explanations; after all, they were a man short, and work wasn’t getting any less. Still, Rhys could not shake off the feeling that Gwen was lying to him.

Which wouldn’t have been anything new, either. So much about the upcoming wedded bliss. Bloody Torchwood!

Knowing that he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again – and wondering how long it would take until chronic insomnia would start to influence his work – Rhys too a long, hot shower, then put on a terrycloth robe, fetched a beer from the fridge and sprawled out on the couch in front of the telly. 

It was beyond midnight, but one of the commercial channels would have reruns of Wife Swap. He needed something normal, something down-to-earth and thoroughly silly to distract him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Gwen was not happy to find Rhys on the living room couch, surrounded by empty beer bottles, asleep with the telly still running. He’d been developing a resistance to the sleeping pills she secretly slipped into his food whenever she needed to leave without him asking questions, and that could become a problem in the long run.

She didn’t want to Retcon him again, even if she could. She’d done so in the past year repeatedly, and she feared that he’d end up like Suzie’s victims. She didn’t want that to happen. She needed him; the solid, normal background he provided – even though her other interests had long turned away from him.

Her short, torrid affair with Owen had been very satisfying – until that bastard would develop an interest for the woman from the 1950s who could have been his mother. Granted, she hadn’t been actually that old, due to the time travel aspect, but still… How would Owen _dare_ to drop her for someone like that?

And then there was Jack, of course. Jack, whose mere presence could make her week-kneed. Jack, with his ridiculous principles of not breaking up a stable relationship. Jack, who lowered himself to shagging the teaboy instead of finally standing up to his feelings like a man.

That bastard who’d run off with some mysterious alien – Gwen still didn’t quite buy the whole legend about the Doctor, no matter what Tosh would say. What did Tosh know anyway – apart from freakish tech and computers, that is? And Ianto was lying whenever he opened his mouth.

But in the end, it didn’t matter whom Jack had run off with – or why. What did matter was the fact that he had run off, abandoning his team, his responsibilities, and the city he was supposed to protect.

Abandoning her.

 _No-one_ abandoned Gwen Cooper for some random alien. And if they did, they were gonna pay the price.

With an anxious look at the softly snoring Rhys – she didn’t want to wake him, now that he was finally asleep, and most certainly not at the moment, when she had such a delicate matter to handle – she tiptoed by him to the small room next to their bedroom that served as her study.

She booted up her computer and began to work on her report to that odd lot called UNIT. She still didn’t fully understand what kind of organization it was, but if Tosh and Ianto were so afraid of them learning about Jack’s disappearance, they would be the right people to contact. They would evaluate the situation and do what needed to be done.

Torchwood Three needed a new leader. And no matter what the others were blathering about, she was the one Jack had chosen to replace his second-in-command. She was the one with the people skills, the one with the connection to the police, the one who knew how a proper investigation should be done.

Under Jack’s leadership, work at Torchwood Three had been chaotic at best. If they wanted to manage without him – who, at least, didn’t need sleep and couldn’t be killed, not for good anyway – they needed to be better organized… a bit like the police, actually.

There had to be a clear structure of responsibilities; a proper chain of command. She knew she would be able to establish that, eventually; the others would have to adapt. It was that simple. And once she’d broken her colleagues in, she could hire more people to work for Torchwood – to work for her.

But first she had to secure the position for herself. Before Ianto could lick the right boots up to whatever authorities had the right to choose a replacement for Jack. That lying little weasel had already started to worm his way into the confidence of the City Hall employees; a good thing that Carrie’s hubby had informed Mr Grainger in time. 

No support for the teaboy from that angle… and should Jack ever return, the photos Gwen had taken would show him that his opportunistic little bed-warmer had found somebody else soon enough. One way or another, Ianto was going to lose.

With a dark little smile, Gwen finished her report and consulted her phone, trying to find the best address to send it to. Unfortunately for her, none of the names in Jack’s phone book appeared even vaguely familiar. Well, none save for that Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart Tosh and Ianto had mentioned; but they also said that the Brigadier was a friend of Jack’s – and had retired years ago anyway.

Most names had various abbreviations attached to them; abbreviations she was unfamiliar with. She didn’t want to go to the PM’s office right away – Jack always said Torchwood was above the government. But not above UNIT, apparently… and what about the Home Office? The Secret Service? Couldn’t they do something?

She studied the names some more until she found one marked as both UNIT and MI5. Her eyes widened in surprise. That was exactly what she needed! That must have been one of those people Jack had occasionally yelled at through the phone.

Grinning to herself in satisfaction, Gwen wrote a short message, attached her report and sent the whole thing to a certain Commodore Sullivan. Then she carefully wiped the Sent Messages folder in her mailing program, just in case Tosh or Ianto would try to hack into her computer. Again.

There; it was done. Now she could lean back and wait for the results.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Commodore Harry Sullivan was more than a little surprised when the message of an unknown woman arrived on his computer in the middle of the night.

Firstly because he only used this particular address to keep in touch with Jack Harkness and other ex-companions. Secondly because the woman introduced herself as the second-in-command of Torchwood Cardiff. And thirdly because she raised serious accusations against Jack Harkness, the one on top of her list, the most disturbing among them, being that Jack had abandoned his duties as the Torchwood leader and run off with some alien in a blue police box.

That particular piece of information told Sullivan more than it would tell most people. Those not in the know would have found the description ridiculous. Sullivan, however, knew at once that Jack must have left with the Doctor – which, in itself, was unusual, to say the least.

The Doctor, not moving along the paths of linear time, usually didn’t contact his former companions, in order to avoid causing a temporal paradox. The commodore himself hadn’t seen the elusive Time Lord since the mid-1970s, although he knew that various incarnations of him had visited Earth in the meantime. Repeatedly.

The last reported appearances were in Cardiff, during the earthquake in 2006, and a different incarnation in London, at the time of the unsuccessful Sycorax invasion. There were rumours that the same incarnation had been present at Canary Wharf, but no-one could actually prove that.

Still, that didn’t mean that he couldn’t have visited Cardiff recently. The commodore vaguely remembered Jack Harkness saying something about the TARDIS needing to be refuelled and the Rift being the right place to do so, and if the Doctor picked up an ex-companion again, he must have had a reason for that.

God knows Jack had waited long enough for him. One hundred years it had been? Or two hundred? Somewhere in-between, of that Sullivan was quite sure.

He read through the attachment again, his face getting increasingly grim in the process. Whoever this Gwen Cooper character was, obviously hated Jack very much – and wanted Jack’s position badly. The accusations were severe: neglecting duties, covering up for horrible mistakes of team members – mistakes that put Cardiff at serious risk – for sexual favours, and now leaving the Rift in the care of untrained civilians… 

It was pure, dumb luck that she happened to send this to Sullivan’s address. The current brass of UNIT would happily discard Jack as unfit and move in to take over the Rift. They certainly wouldn’t appoint one of Jack’s team as his successor. Without Jack, Torchwood Three would be dissolved in no time and turned into a UNIT outpost.

Had this stupid woman considered that? Apparently not. Perhaps she had no idea; or chose to ignore the risks. All she seemed to care about was to become the next Torchwood Three leader.

The commodore wondered how she might have found his address; perhaps by searching through Jack’s things. After all, Jack had left rather abruptly; and he’d always been a bit careless with things he hadn’t considered important.

Of course, if he didn’t mean to come back, he wouldn’t need to be careful, right?

In any case Sullivan needed to learn more about Torchwood agent Gwen Cooper. And he needed to stop her, by any means necessary. Should she find out that she’d sent her little message of pure slander to the wrong address, she might give it a second try.

Or she might have already sent multiple letters, to all addresses she’d found in Jack’s phone book. That would be a disaster of epic proportions.

Still, Sullivan needed to move carefully. He no longer was in the position to intervene directly. After his stint with the NATO his function with both UNIT and MI5 was a consulting one. Would he start asking questions – by the Cardiff Police, for example, where Gwen Cooper had apparently worked before joining Torchwood, he’d draw a lot of unwanted attention to Torchwood Three.

For a few minutes he was thinking really hard. Then his eyes lit up in triumph.

“Of course, of course,” he muttered. “I should have thought of her right away.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
In the quiet of her house in Ealing, London, Sarah Jane Smith was startled when her phone rang in such an ungodly hour.

It wasn’t the fact itself that somebody would call her in the middle of the night… well; morning would almost be more accurate. As a freelance journalist she was used to such things. After all, her informants often took a risk by telling her things she wasn’t exactly supposed to know, and for some unfathomable reason most people seemed to believe that calling at night would be safer.

As if the listening devices would stop for sleep.

Not that her phone could have been hacked, of course. Mr Smith made sure of that. Still, people tended to call at nighttime.

No, what surprised her was the fact that it was her second phone that rang. The clumsy, outdated model with the ring tone mimicking the noise the TARDIS made when landing. Or starting. The one she only used to keep in touch with other ex-companions, because it didn’t have a GPS.

The one that hadn’t rung… well, she couldn’t even remember for how long.

The screen showed Harry’s number, and she smiled involuntarily. Dear old Harry still called from time to time, checking on her. Making sure she was all right, even though their shared adventures lay in the past. In the distant past. More distant than she liked to admit, to be honest.

Still, Harry calling her at such an unusual time was a tad worrying, and she picked up the phone in a great hurry.

“Harry, what’s going on? Is the world about to end?”

“Not yet, at least I hope it isn’t,” the familiar voice of her old friend answered. “But something’s definitely fishy. Did you know the Doctor was here again?”

“No,” she said in surprise. “I haven’t seen him – the new him – since that incident with the Krillitanes at Deffry Vale school. Of course, he never bothers to drop by when he’s in town,” she added, with a slight bitterness. “It’s nothing new.”

“He wasn’t in London; he was in Cardiff,” Harry offered as some kind of consolation.

“That makes sense,” she replied. ‘He was probably refuelling the TARDIS. He does that from time to time, according to Jack – why is this case any different?”

“Because Jack’s apparently gone with him,” Harry said.

“Has he now?” Sarah Jane frowned a bit. “Then who’s watching the Rift now?”

“That’s the problem,” Harry’s voice was worried – a bad sign. After all he’d seen and experienced, Harry wasn’t one to worry easily. “It seems that his team’s tried to cover up his disappearance – except the one who’s damn eager to get his job. She sent me a message with a detailed list of Jack’s supposed shortcomings and her own skills that would apparently qualify her as the new Torchwood Three leader.”

“Nothing really qualifies one to lead Torchwood Three,” Sarah Jane snorted. “All previous Torchwood Three leaders had come to a bad end. Could Jack stay dead, he’d be in one of those cryogenic tubes already, several times over. What does this woman make so sure she’d be better? What is she? A former MI5 or MI6 agent? An android from outer space? The female reincarnation of James Bond?”

“A former police constable, apparently,” Harry said dryly.

Sarah Jane was speechless for a long moment. Absolutely speechless. The mere idea of a PC – a former PC – in charge of the Cardiff Rift boggled the mind.

“You’re kidding, right?” she then said. “You have to be kidding. Tell me that you are kidding.”

“Not at all, I’m afraid,” Harry replied.

Sarah Jane still couldn’t quite believe it. “Good gracious, is the woman insane? Does she really think that breaking up bar fights qualifies her to lead the most endangered outpost in the UK? And why did she write you, of all people? You never had anything to do with Torchwood and you aren’t even with UNIT anymore.”

“Perhaps she snatched Jack’s phone book and chose the person with the most impressive-sounding titles,” Harry joked humourlessly.

“That’s bad, really bad,” Sarah Jane said. “Worse than bad; it’s a nightmare. Who knows whom else did she contact? Not everyone at UNIT likes Jack.”

“That, I say, is the understatement of the century,” Harry replied glumly. Jack, while generally capable of charming people out of their pants, was good at making enemies, too.

“We should alert the Brig,” Sarah Jane said. “He still has some influence. We might need him.”

“I’ll contact him first thing in the morning,” Harry promised. “But there are other things to do, and I’ll need your help, old thing.”

“Don’t call me that,” Sarah Jane said automatically; some things never changed, which was actually comforting. “What can I possibly do? It’s not so as if anyone at UNIT would listen to me, you know. They never did. Not even while I was travelling with the Doctor.”

“Their loss,” Harry replied, gallantly as always. “It doesn’t matter. I need you to do what you do best: check on people and ferret out their secrets.”

“You mean you need me to go to Cardiff and find out whatever I can about this woman,” Sarah Jane translated the request.

“Aye,” Harry said. “If you could discredit her a bit in the process, it would be even better.”

“Hmmm,” Sarah Jane weighed the possibilities against each other in her mind. “Well, I happen to have a former student in Cardiff who works for one of the local newspapers. She worked very doggedly on revealing Mayor Blaine’s dubious nuclear project a couple of years ago… of course, she didn’t know that Blaine was actually a Slitheen. What was her name again? Catie… no, Cathy. Cathy Salt. I can contact her and get her on the case.”

“I’d prefer if you could go yourself, old girl.”

“And I’d prefer if you could stop with the silly nicknames. They weren’t funny thirty years ago and now they’re positively insulting,” Sarah Jane snapped. “Don’t fret, I will go to Cardiff. But I’ve got things to finish here first, and in the meantime Cathy can dig out the basic facts for me. She’s very good at that.”

“All right, let’s do this your way,” Harry sighed. “I’d sleep better if we could monitor her online correspondence, though. Do you think Mr Smith could do it?”

“I can try,” Sarah Jane replied, a little uncertainly. “It couldn’t be that complicated – unless she sends her messages from the Torchwood Hub. Not even Mr Smith can trick the Torchwood Mainframe.”

“The mail sent to me came from her private address. I don’t think she’d risk to send anything from the Hub where he others could catch her red-handed,” Harry said. “All right, then. Let’s keep in touch, shall we?”

“Always,” Sarah Jane answered with a smile and hung up.

It felt good, working with Harry on saving the world again. Just like in old times.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The Hub was eerily quiet just before daybreak – but not empty. Never empty. It was a place full of ghosts. 

Ghosts of former Torchwood agents, now lying still and cold and dead in the morgue, frozen for eternity. 

The ones who had forcibly drafted Jack a century and a half ago. 

The ones he had fought with, worked with in those long years, and inevitably lost – to malevolent aliens, to dangerous alien technology or simply to the passing of time that flowed past him like a river flows past an unmovable rock. 

The ones he had found dead, killed by his predecessor – to save them, apparently.

The ones he had to kill, in order to prevent something terrible from happening. Like Suzie.

Yes, the Hub was full of ghosts, which was why no-one liked to stay here alone. No-one but Ianto, that is, who had lived with his own ghosts for too long to still be bothered. 

There was very little that could still bother him after Canary Wharf. Or after having lost Lisa for the second time.

Jack’s departure was one of those things – and not only because it would set back the healing of his wounds by, oh, about a century or so. Apart from leaving him behind without a second thought, Jack had also dropped the responsibility for Torchwood Three onto his lap. 

The Rift couldn’t be left unwatched. Cardiff couldn’t be left unprotected. Gwen was unfit for the job she so obviously desired. Tosh didn’t want it and Owen… Owen was in no shape to do any job at the moment, not even his regular one.

That left Ianto. Ianto who’d been longer part of Torchwood than any of them. Who’d been trained by Torchwood One thoroughly and who had, thanks to his photographic memory, all Torchwood secrets – or at least their location in the Archives – in his head.

He was the last Torchwood Archivist still alive.

Had UNIT known who – or rather _what_ – he was, he’d probably be dead by now, too. They’d have taken him to some secret lab, trying to extract the info from his brain. And then he wouldn’t have had any other choice than to activate that tiny piece of alien tech embedded deeply in his cranium and trigger self-destruction.

He had sworn a solemn oath to keep Torchwood’s secrets from falling into the wrong hands – and he knew all too well the dangers, so he would fulfil that oath voluntarily.

That meant he had to hold things firmly in his own hand – if only to keep those secrets safe from Gwen’s constant nosing around. That she was ruthless in her pursuing her own agenda the security cameras hidden in Jack’s office had already shown. So Ianto used the night to take preventive measures.

The first step had been to clean out Jack’s office. Ianto emptied the desk completely, save for the piles of paperwork waiting for someone – for him, as usual – to deal with them. He removed the rusty old thin box from the bottom drawer – the box containing old photos from Jack’s past, which he never got to see but knew they existed – and took it down to Jack’s room, where he buried it in the hindmost corner of the wardrobe. Then he sealed the room and put a security lock on the trap door.

He would come down to air and clean the room from time to time, but no-one else would enter it. Least of all Gwen-bloody-Cooper.

He then methodically removed every piece of alien tech lying around haphazardly in Jack’s office – the man could be really messy at times – returned them to the Archives and changed all the security passwords, just in case Jack had carelessly told Gwen any of them. He also changed the access code to the safe in Jack’s office, where the truly dangerous objects were kept.

“I’ll tell Tosh about it later,” he muttered to himself.

“You’ll tell me about what?” a soft voice asked from behind his back, and he whirled around, startled that she’d managed to get in without him noticing.

Until he remembered that he’d turned off the alarm himself, so that he’d be able to move in and out in peace.

“The new security codes,” he replied, giving Tosh a tired smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What are you doing here, Tosh? You should be at home, resting.”

She smiled back at him, equally tiredly and more than just a little sadly.

“So should you. And yet here we are, both of us. Couldn’t sleep, eh?”

“Too many nightmares, ever since Canary Wharf,” Ianto sighed. “The recent weeks weren’t helping, either. You?”

“The same,” Tosh admitted. “Every time I close my eyes I see Bilis Manger – or Jack, lying in the morgue. What are you doing, Ianto?”

“Securing the Hub,” he explained. “Making sure that only you and me can access any confidential information.”

“Is that fair to the others?” she asked quietly. “Owen…”

“Owen wouldn’t care; not in his current shape,” Ianto interrupted. “And Gwen has already searched Jack’s office; taking photographs of his phone book, with all the secret numbers; that of the UNIT liaison, of MI5, MI6, the Prime Minister’s office, the Home Office… in her hands, they could be dangerous. You know what she’s like, doing the first thing that occurs to her, without thinking of the possible consequences.”

Tosh paled imagining those consequences. 

“What can we do to counteract?” she asked.

“First of all, I want those numbers deleted from her phone; replaced with completely harmless ones would be even better. Could Mainframe hack into the phone, what do you think?”

Tosh bit her lower lip, thinking.

“I’m not sure,” she confessed. “But I can give it a try.”

“Please do,” Ianto was visibly relieved. “And when you’re already at it, try to set up a few firewalls that would limit her access to the database as much as possible. I don’t want her poke around in my Digital Archives.”

“Do you really think it’s necessary?” Tosh was mildly shocked by his request.

Ianto nodded. “Oh, yes. Those databases should have been password-protected from the beginning, but Jack had a bit of a lash attitude towards security. If he hadn’t, the whole disaster with Suzie and the resurrection glove could have been prevented. That is something I wouldn’t like to face again.”

Tosh couldn’t argue with that, and so she sat down to her desk to do as Ianto had asked.


	5. Inquiries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the shortness of this chapter, but this seemed to be the best place to stop.  
> The Cardiff detectives are actually nameless extras from "They Keep Killing Suzie", whom I christened and use in my various stories.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER 05 – INQUIRIES**

The mysterious deaths of the recent days – dozens of people had died in Cardiff within a single day, less than a week ago, for reasons no-one could explain – left the local police with a sheer unsolvable problem. They had the morgues of several hospitals full of dead bodies and couldn’t explain to the upset relatives what might have happened to their loved ones.

“Have the post mortems come up with any conclusive cause for their deaths?” Detective Kathy Swanson asked tiredly.

Like most in the force, she’d had next to no sleep for the last week, hadn’t seen her little daughter save for stolen moments when the child wasn’t even awake, and was so numb with exhaustion that she couldn’t even care. Which was the most frightening aspect of the whole disaster.

“Nope,” Desk Sergeant Paul Bronowski handed her a pile of autopsy reports. “Apparently, people just… stopped. Or rather their hearts did – from one moment to another. Some kind of deep shock.”

“Nonsense,” Detective Trefor Pugh, the most senior of them, a short, stocky man in his mid-forties, snorted. “A hundred and thirty-eight people of various ages, social standings and health condition don't just die of the same thing at the same time without a reason.”

“Except that these did,” Detective M’Benga, a slender back man with a clean-shaven head, commented cynically. “Unless you count the shadow of the Devil that supposedly fell over them, that is.”

Swanson rolled her eyes. “Spare me the Apocalypse, Geoff.”

“Well, the biblical signs were certainly there,” Bronowski said, and it was hard to tell whether he was joking or speaking seriously. “The outbreak of the Black Death, the Beatles on the roof of Abbey Road Studios, guillotine appearances in Paris, samurai warriors on the rampage in the Tokyo subway system…” 

“UFOs above Taj Mahal, monsters in Halloween masks roaming the streets in Cardiff, people clad like Roman soldiers stabbing people with spears in Penarth, people seeing their dead relatives… the only thing that didn’t happen was the return of Elvis,” added M’Benga, grinning.

“Mass hysteria,” Pugh dismissed it all. "Or hallucinogens in the water system. I’m sure those freaks from Torchwood had something to do with it.”

“Speaking of the devil,” Swanson looked over to the desk where her PA and flatmate, Eiry Conway was sitting and comparing what little useful data they had. “Have we heard from Harkness yet? Or from any of the others?”

The pleasantly plump woman shook her head. “Nothing since PC Davidson phoned them and they took that supposed Roman soldier out of our hands.”

“That’s odd,” Swanson said with a frown. “Normally, they’d be all over the place, lording it over us, as if they owned the city. Have they even been seen lately?”

Eiry shook her head again. “Not at any of the crime scenes. Cooper met those annoying friends of hers in their usual place and Jones was seen in the _Old Sailor_ with that young bloke from the City Hall, Idris Hopper, a couple of days ago. The others haven’t shown their faces at all. As if they hadn’t left their base for days. Including Harkness.”

“I wonder if they know we’ve put tracking devices on all their cars,” M’Benga grinned.

“Hardly,” Pugh replied with a snort. “Or they’d have removed all pieces already.”

“Or they simply don’t care cos they know we’re powerless against them,” Swanson said. “All right, people, if there aren’t any new dead bodies we should call it a day. We all need some decent sleep.”

“Including you,” Eiry pointed out.

“Oh, I intend to get some, believe me!” Swanson answered with feeling. “As soon as I’ve finished my long overdue report for Detective Inspector Henderson I’m so out of here. Although what I’m gonna tell him I still haven’t got the foggiest. We have nothing. Literally nothing.”

“Apart from a hundred and thirty-eight dead bodies,” M’Benga said. “And no visible reason for them to be dead.”

“Thanks, Geoff, that really makes me feel so much better,” Swanson’s voice was dripping with sarcasm. “Now, off with you all. In five minutes, I don’t want to see here anyone who isn’t on the graveyard shift.”

Barely had the words left her mouth, she regretted them already. Among the one hundred and thirty-eight mysterious deaths four were from their own precinct, and another seven friends and family members of them. Ever since then, people studiously avoided calling the late night watch graveyard shift. It clearly showed how exhausted she was that she’d managed to forget about it.

The others tactfully pretended not to have noticed her faux pas and filed out of the shared office, one after another – until she was left alone with her PA who was also packing already. The babysitter would leave within the hour, and in such cases Eiry took over the task of watching little Neesha.

“Anything else I should know about before you leave?” Swanson asked.

“Nothing conclusive,”” Eiry replied, checking her list of incoming phone calls. “Unless you count the call of Ms Salt… you know, the science correspondent of the _Cardiff Gazette_ who revealed the scandal about Mayor Blaine a couple of years ago.”

Swanson sighed. Ms Salt was one of those journalists that could drive her to distraction. While her writing style counted as a bit dry and pedantic, Cathy Sand was like a bloodhound. She had a unique gift to sniffle out scandals; and once she was on the track, no-one could distract her.

A hundred and thirty-eight unexplained deaths were right up her street.

“What did she want?” Swanson asked resignedly.

“That’s the odd part of it,” Eiry replied. “She wanted information about Gwen Cooper.”

Swanson stared at her PA in stunned disbelief. “Why should anyone want to know anything about _Cooper_?”

“She said something about planning to write a series on women in unusual jobs,” Eiry said slowly. “But I think there’s more behind it.”

“You mean Cooper might have messed up something colossally?” Swanson asked. “I won’t be surprised. How she managed to finish police school with an award for best behaviour is beyond everyone’s imagination… unless the performance in the broom closet was the only thing that counted.”

Eiry shrugged. “Men are alike in many things; including in accepting that which is offered freely. I only feel sorry for Rhys. He would deserve better treatment.”

“Wouldn’t most of us?” Swanson commented rhetorically. “All right, make an appointment with Ms Salt; it’s better I talk to her than the Detective Inspector. He’s got a lot less tolerance for the press, and our image is bad enough as it is.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“So, what did you find out?” Sarah Jane asked her former pupil.

They were sitting in her room in _St. David’s Hotel_ , which she’d searched thoroughly in advance for listening devices before inviting Cathy over. To her relief, she found none. Her arrival clearly remained unnoticed by both Torchwood and the local authorities… not that _that_ would be surprising. The only person who’d have reacted to her name was supposedly gone – which had brought her to Cardiff in the first place.

Cathy Salt shrugged. With her mousey brown hair and outdated beehive hairdo she was singularly unremarkable. No-one would have expected the razor sharp mind – or the considerable scientific knowledge – behind that bland façade. She was the science correspondent of the _Cardiff Gazette_ for a reason, though. Her marks might not have been good enough for a career as a scientist, but she certainly understood the basics much better than the average journalist.

A fact that had nearly cost her her life, back in 2006, when she’d started snooping around the highly questionable Blaidd Dwrg project.

“Not much of real interest,” she admitted. “Miss Cooper was apparently fairly new at the police when she left them to join Torchwood, less than a year ago. A beat cop, basically; still too much of a rookie to be assigned to anything more important than walking the beat and serving coffee on police meetings. She had a one-time romp with her then-partner, a PC Davidson, who still seems to have a crush on her, and she uses his affections to get info out of him at times.”

“Do the police have any records on her activities while with Torchwood?” Sarah Jane asked. Cathy nodded.

“Lots of it. Mostly reports on trespassing at crime scenes, even if those didn’t have anything to do with Torchwood, not even marginally. But that’s something our police are used from Torchwood since Captain Harkness had taken over. In one case, though, she was suspected to have stabbed somebody – a certain Mr Ed Morgan – but that was later filed away as an unfortunate accident. The victim apparently attacked her and ran into the knife she was holding.”

“She was holding a _knife_?” Sarah Jane frowned. “With the pointy edge upwards? Why on Earth would she do such a stupid thing?”

Cathy shrugged again. “No idea. According to Detective Swanson, Captain Harkness pulled ranks, and the case was closed pretty much on the spot.”

That sounded a lot like Jack indeed, but Sarah Jane found it better to keep that to herself.

“What else?” she asked instead.

“Well, she seems a bit clumsy and accident-prone,” Cathy studied her notes. “It seems no-one in Torchwood gets injured so often as she does. Remember about those cannibals in the Brecon Beacons?”

Sarah Jane nodded. The media were full of blood-churning stories about that, with all the gory details and sickening photos they could dig out.

“You say Torchwood was involved?” she asked.

“Yep; apparently, they went on some camping trip – team-building it’s called; an American thing, but Captain Harkness is American, isn’t he? In any case, they got caught by the local weirdoes and nearly eaten. Cooper got a shotgun wound and their office boy was beaten up brutally; a shame, that, as he’s a nice bloke.”

“But they did get out in one piece, didn’t they?”

“Oh, yes; it’s said that Captain Harkness all but levelled the house with a tractor and shot a dozen or so people… didn’t kill them, mind you, but he did save his team single-handedly. It was like a bad American action film, according to the paramedics who were called to take care of the wounded.”

That was something Sarah Jane could imagine all too well. Jack did have a lot of an American action hero in his make-up, and storming a house full of armed cannibals to save his team was exactly the thing he would do.

“You spoke to the paramedics?” she asked.

“Of course!” Cathy sounded almost insulted. “I may not be the crime correspondent, but this was the biggest story of the year! Besides, I always do some investigation on my own whenever Torchwood is involved.”

“Why?” Sarah Jane admitted to herself that she was a bit concerned. Cathy on a trail, as she’d told Harry, was a force of nature. If she found out that Jack was gone…

“Torchwood is a mystery,” Cathy explained. “In fact, it is _the_ mystery of Cardiff. It’s been a mystery since the 19th century, and I find mysteries irresistible.”

“Just be careful,” Sarah Jane warned. “I don’t know the Cardiff branch, but Torchwood London was known for their ruthless methods in dealing with those who were caught snooping around them. Anyway, tell me more about this Cooper woman. Why do you say she’s clumsy? Anyone can get shot by a gun, unfortunately.”

“Yep; especially when charging into a house without waiting for the more experienced people, in a village known for guileless travellers vanishing in it,” Cathy commented dryly.

Sarah Jane raised an eyebrow. “The police have an impressive amount of detail on Torchwood operations, I see.”

“No, they don’t,” Cathy said. “But I happened to run into their Dr Harper in a bar, and drunk men tend to tell a lot of things when a woman is listening compassionately. Things they’d never speak of when sober.”

Oh God, this was worse than expected! The medical officer of Torchwood pouring out his heart (and his secrets) to a journalist in a pub was every security officer’s worst nightmare. It seemed that Gwen Cooper wasn’t the only weak link in Jack’s team.

“I see your point,” Sarah Jane said. “What else is there?”

“I left the best for the end,” Cathy grinned mirthlessly. “A couple of weeks later Cooper helped some rogue former Torchwood agent to escape from their cells and nearly got killed by her in exchange.”

“A rogue former agent?” Sarah Jane repeated in stunned disbelief.

She knew that there were only two ways to leave Torchwood: through Retcon or in a coffin. An agent that could resist the thorough mind-wipe had to be very dangerous.

“It seems they thought her dead but she wasn’t, after all; something like that, the details are a bit blurred,” Cathy explained. “Anyway, she dished up some clichéd tale about a dying father, Cooper bought it and helped her escape. On their way out, she locked down the Torchwood base, with the rest of the team within, took Cooper hostage and fled with her car. The police were full in this one, as Captain Harkness needed Detective Swanson’s help to break the security code and get out of his own base. The coppers still get laughing fits when the case is mentioned.”

Sarah Jane didn’t feel like laughing about it. At all. That there could be such thing as a rogue Torchwood agent escaping the usual mind-wipe and returning to play havoc with the only still functional Torchwood team was bad enough. That another Torchwood agent would be stupid enough to buy into some sentimental crap and help the finally contained rogue to escape, giving her the chance to successfully cut off the entire Torchwood base was even worse. The fact that the same inexperienced rookie was trying to gain control over Torchwood by making Jack look bad – Jack-bloody-Harkness, who’d been working for Torchwood for a century and a half! – was a disaster begging to happen.

The woman needed to be stopped, by any means necessary, or the consequences could no longer be safely foreseen.

“Anything else?” she asked.

“Nothing worth mentioning,” Cathy studied her notes again. “Apparently, Cooper harassed the police to investigate the death of some loser by the name of Eugene Jones cos she believed he’d been murdered.”

“Was he?” Sarah Jane asked sharply, but Cathy shook her head.

“It seems to have been a simple car accident, though; one of the many that happen on that particular road every year. Cooper herself nearly got run over by a car while snooping around. Other than that, she’s simply being an annoyance. As the police liaison, she likes bossing around the police at crime scenes – especially her former partner – so that they no longer talk to her… well, save for PC Davidson, who’s too loyal a soul for his own good. But whenever Detective Swanson needs to discuss something of importance with Torchwood, she usually calls Jones.”

She closed her notebook and shrugged. “I’m sorry; this is all I could find out in such a short notice. I can try to corner Jones, though…”

Sarah Jane shook her head. “No; this would do for the time being. Thank you, Cathy.”

“Don’t mention it,” Cathy hesitated for a moment. “Sarah Jane, is there any particular reason you’re so interested in this Cooper woman? I mean, there’s nothing outstanding about her, save perhaps her delusions of grandeur. She’s as common as dirt; and not particularly intelligent, either. Does this have something to do with Captain Harkness’s disappearance?”

“What?” Sarah Jane stared at her former pupil in shock. “How on earth can you possibly know about _that_?”

“Geoffrey, that’s my husband, is a civil servant, working for the City Council,” Cathy explained. “He’s heard it from one of his colleagues, Huw Fairchild, whose wife is a friend of this Cooper character. Torchwood is obviously trying to cover up the fact that their boss is gone, but I know that Huw told it Mr Grainger, so it’s more or less official now,” she gave Sarah Jane a searching look. “You knew this already, didn’t you?”

Sarah Jane nodded. “Jack Harkness is a dear old friend of mine. If he had to go on some undercover mission without telling his team about it, he must have had his reasons. Very good reasons, in fact.

“Then why are you investigating?” Cathy asked.

“Because I find it disturbing that one of his own people would try backstabbing him as soon as he’s left town,” Sarah Jane replied grimly. “I asked you to do a little snooping around for me because you’re a local and had the better chance to actually get some answers. But you have to understand that this must not go any further. Everything Torchwood does is covered by the Official Secrets Act; leaking things would endanger the national security and there are organizations that deal with people who do the leaking quickly and very, very efficiently.”

Cathy gnawed her lower lip for a moment; then she nodded.

“All right,” she said. “But tell whoever makes the final decisions that I want in. I won’t publish anything, I’ll sign the Official Secrets Act if I have to, but I want a look at their base. And an interview with whoever gets to lead them in Captain Harkness’s absence. Even if it can only be disclosed a hundred years after my death, I want to make the first ever report about Torchwood.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Sarah Jane said with a sigh.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“Absolutely _not_!” Commodore Sullivan roared when the topic was broached to him. “Out of question! Not in a thousand years!

“Why not?” Sarah Jane asked. “It isn’t as if Torchwood would be such a big secret – at least, in Cardiff it certainly isn’t. And they could use a press liaison who actually knows what they’re doing and helps them cover up things.”

“Yeah, sure,” Sullivan snorted.

“Harry, stop it!” Sarah Jane said sternly. “Cathy Salt is a serious journalist, not some tabloid reporter. A science correspondent whose help in decking up Margaret Blaine’s Blaidd Dwrg project was invaluable. People believe her because she knows what she’s talking about. And Torchwood has a bad enough reputation due to Jack’s tendency to steamroll over everyone in his way. They could use a bit of positive press.”

“Jack wouldn’t like the press being involved in any way,” Sullivan promised.

Sarah Jane shrugged. “Probably not. But he’s apparently run off with the Doctor, without leaving instructions for his team, and if we don’t move quickly, he may not have a team when he comes home. _If_ he comes back at all, now that he found what he’d been waiting for all this time.”

“The Doctor,” Sullivan nodded.

“The right kind of Doctor,” Sarah Jane corrected. “Not ours, not Ace’s, not Ian and Barbara’s. _His_ Doctor.”

“Having so many different versions of him at such different times can be a trifle confusing,” Sullivan said pensively. “But if Jack isn’t planning to come back, Torchwood Three will need a new leader.”

“Torchwood Three will need a new leader no matter what,” Sara Jane replied in concern. There’s no way to tell _when_ Jack will be back – if ever. Even if the Doctor is planning to bring him back in a couple of hours after his departure, we both know that the TARDIS is a bit unreliable when it comes to short-time travels, both through space and time. They may show up in Cardiff yesterday – or on the South Pole before the most recent ice age. Everything is possible.”

“True,” Sullivan admitted. “However, it’s not our place to make such a decision. Torchwood answers to the Crown directly; only Her Majesty can decide about its future.”

“Fortunately, she likes Jack,” Sarah Jane smiled. “I still remember how shocked I was when I realized the Lizzie Jack so casually spoke of was actually the Queen herself.”

Sullivan grinned. “So was I. But Jack used to bounce her on his knees while she was barely more than a baby – and protected her from both local and extraterrestrial scum in her youth. Still, she won’t hesitate to replace him – or to hand the Rift over to UNIT – should she come to the conclusion that the safety of the country is at risk. She takes her responsibilities very seriously.”

“Somebody has to,” Sarah Jane replied dryly. “Most people show a way too casual attitude when it comes to outside treats. Especially to alien ones.”

She was speaking of the new set of UNIT brass, of course, who were dangerously overconfident and thought they could deal with everything, just because they’d pilfered some minor pieces of alien technology from the ruins of Torchwood One. Which reminded Sullivan that he really needed to do some digging of his own to discover where all the stuff from Torchwood Tower had gone. As soon as they had dealt with the current crisis, that is.

“I say, you’re absolutely right, old girl,” he said, ignoring her death glare. “Which is why I’ve consulted the Brig while you were in Cardiff. He agrees with me that Her Majesty needs to be informed and has already asked for a private audience for us both. In the meantime, we should try to find out everything there is to know about the current Torchwood Three members – and about the survivors of Canary Wharf.”

“What for?” she asked, somewhat confused by the sudden change of topics.

“To see if there are any potential candidates among them,” Sullivan explained. “If Jack needs to be replaced, an insider would be the best choice to take over for him… if we can find one fit for the job. The Brig and I might have to make suggestions, should the situation become grave.”


	6. The Summoning

**CHAPTER 06 – THE SUMMONING**

Four days later in London, at Buckingham Palace, Her Majesty the Queen was giving a most unusual audience. Unusual in the sense that she had called this particular meeting herself, to deal with one of the very few issues in which she actually held the power of decision alone. She was about to decide the future of Torchwood.

The men she had summoned to consult with were highly decorated military officers of the old school, for which the honour of serving Queen and Country was still of utmost importance. They were, consequently, of her own generation; old yet shrewd and powerful, with all their wits around them and not afraid of making – or suggesting – hard decisions.

One of them, Sir Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart, commonly known as the Brigadier (or The Brig), was a dear old friend of hers. But beyond that, he had once been the supreme commander of UNIT and still held a great deal of influence and weight within the British division. The other one, Commodore Harry Sullivan, she had rarely met before. But she knew that the Naval officer and surgeon had once worked with both the Brigadier and the Doctor – the time-travelling alien that had played such in important role in British history – and about him she still was of two minds. The Commodore later served as the Deputy Director of MI5 and was currently closely affiliated with the NATO.

They were both men of _weitblick_ and great experience when it came to alien life and the stopping of potential invasions. They had also both worked with Torchwood for decades – granted, mostly with the London branch, but that did not matter in the current crisis. In these days, Torchwood basically meant the small outpost monitoring the Cardiff Rift, and that particular outpost was being on the verge of collapse right now.

Her Majesty had also invited to this meeting her oldest grandson, the second in the line to inherit the throne. Unlike his father, Prince William was greatly interested in aliens and their technology; should they decide to keep Torchwood after all, the organization would need a staunch supporter within the royal family.

“I shan’t live forever,” she explained with disarming honesty, “and I would hate to see the creation of Her Majesty the Queen Victoria fall to shambles due to negligence.”

“Defence Minister Saxon doesn’t seem to take the alien threat seriously,” the Brigadier commented. “And Prince Charles seems to agree with him.”

“Which is why I invited William to this meeting instead of his father,” the Queen answered dryly. “If anything, the Sycorax invasion has proved that we need Torchwood. Without their knowledge about alien technology and weapons we would never have been able to shoot down that alien spaceship threatening London.”

“I thought the Doctor dealt with the Sycorax,” the Brigadier said, surprised.

“That Doctor of yours debated with the aliens, fought a ritual duel with their leader, and then let them leave, with a vague promise that they won’t return,” the Queen said dismissively. “Forgive me, Sir Alistair, but I would rather entrust the safety of this kingdom to solid defensive weaponry than to the dubious goodwill of some visiting alien who might or might not come to our rescue if we are on the verge of complete destruction. Especially to one who was petty enough to destroy the career of Prime Minister Jones, out of spite for having crossed his lofty ideals.”

She was still very upset about that fact. She had liked Harriet Jones, a solid, honest, reliable back-bencher-turned-Prime-Minister, and could not forgive the Doctor for starting the rumours about Harriet’s ill health, which had ultimately led to the vote of no confidence. Practically preparing the way for Harold Saxon to take over… which, sadly, seemed inevitable when one watched the tendencies closely enough.

For some reason, Her Majesty deeply mistrusted Harold Saxon. The man was too smooth-mannered, too happy and excited all the time to be real. She did not trust him… she couldn’t quite explain why, but she did not. There was something in that man’s eyes that made her shiver.

She shook herself slightly and returned to the more pressing problem at hand. She’d deal with Saxon later, if she had to.

“Gentlemen, the matter in which we need to decide now it the very future of Torchwood. We were forced to close Torchwood London after the Battle of Canary Wharf, and UNIT is still dealing with the aftermath. Currently Torchwood consists of two minor outposts, in Glasgow and Cardiff, and Torchwood House itself, which is in need of a new curator. The question is: can we still afford to keep it running? As much as I’d regret the necessity of closing down an organization that had served the Crown faithfully for so long, do we still truly need it?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Commodore Sullivan answered promptly. “At the very least we need the Cardiff branch. The Rift must be watched closely; and Torchwood Cardiff has done a fairly good job of it in the last two hundred years, give or take a few.”

“Couldn’t UNIT take over these outposts?” asked Prince William. “They are practically in the same line of work, and frankly, they are better organized and better trained. At least the British division is. I was impressed by Colonel Mace’s leading abilities when I visited the UNIT Headquarters last year.”

“They could,” the Brigadier said. “But I don’t think they should. “If we pass the guardianship of the Rift over to UNIT, Her Majesty would lose control over the most dangerous spot in the United Kingdom. I don’t think that would be wise. Yes, Colonel Mace is a decent chap and a good officer, but the Crown has no influence over his staying or leaving, as we have recently seen – or who might come after him.”

“And you think Torchwood is the best solution?” Prince William still didn’t seem very certain about that. Colonel Mace must have made a lasting impression.

“I’m not so sure anymore,” the Brigadier answered slowly. “Without Harkness, mattes could go downhill really quickly there. His way of dealing with things might have been unorthodox at best – it certainly drove Yvonne Hartmann up the walls – but he’d worked for Torchwood Cardiff for a century and a half and Cardiff is still there and Earth hasn’t been invaded yet… not through the Rift, anyway. So aye, I’d prefer Torchwood _with_ Harkness, rather than without him.”

“Unfortunately, that’s no longer an option,” Prince William pointed out.

The Brigadier nodded unhappily. “I know, Your Highness; which is why we chose to inform Her Majesty as soon as we learned about Harkness’ disappearance.”

“Do you still think Torchwood should remain in charge of the Rift, though?” the Queen asked; both officers nodded. “Very well; I will take that under consideration. Who is still left of the team?”

"Four people,” Commodore Sullivan took a manila folder out of his briefcase and handed it to Her Majesty who opened it and handed the personal files within to her grandson to study them. “Medical officer Dr Owen Harper, recruited by Harkness in 2005. Computer expert Dr Toshiko Sato, bailed out of a secret UNIT prison by Harkness to work for him in the late 2003; her five years of indenture are still running. General Support Officer Ianto Jones, recruited right out of university by Torchwood One in early 2003; he’s one of the survivors of Canary Wharf. And police liaison Gwen Cooper, recruited by Harkness less than a year ago, after the death of his second-in-command, Suzie Costello.”

“Not much of a team,” Prince William commented dismissively. “And one of them was imprisoned by UNIT? What for?”

The Brigadier hesitated, not wanting to expose Toshiko, whom he genuinely liked; besides, how was he supposed to tell the future king that she had been imprisoned for high treason? Fortunately, the Queen came to his rescue.

“This is a delicate matter, William; one that should not be discussed right now,” she said. “You will be debriefed when you step in my place; until then it is not your concern. Let’s just say that pardoning her was a decision that I thought about very carefully – and never regretted. She’s a genius and she’s very loyal... as a rule. What happened to her wasn’t entirely her fault. Still, she’s not the person I’d want to see in a leading position.”

“She wouldn’t want it, either,” the Brigadier said. “She’s a specialist, and so is Dr Harper. They should be kept within their comfort zone, where they work most efficiently.”

“What about the other two?” Prince William asked, leafing through the files. “An office boy and an ex-police constable… neither is the proper candidate for leadership, I deem.”

Commodore Sullivan hesitated for a moment before laying his best card on the table – figuratively speaking.

“Ianto Jones is a great deal more than just the office boy,” he finally said. “He is the last surviving archivist of Torchwood London.”

“What?” the Brigadier exclaimed. “But I thought they were all dead!”

“All save him. That’s correct.”

“Then why is he labelled here as a junior researcher?” Prince William stared at the file with a frown.

Sullivan sighed. “Because he was still in training when the Battle of Canary Wharf happened. _All_ of Rupert Howart’s protégées were labelled as junior researchers at first. Jones was his favourite; I think he wanted the boy to take over his job eventually. In about thirty years or so.”

“How did he end up as the office boy in Cardiff, then?” the Queen asked in surprise. Unlike her grandson, she was aware of the demands towards a Torchwood Archivist… and what they were capable of.

“Perhaps he didn’t want to be vivisected by UNIT,” the Brigadier answered dryly. “It was healthier that way. By UNIT’s current attitude, some people wouldn’t have hesitated to cut his brain in pieces to extract the secret codes and passwords of Torchwood One.”

“And they’d have failed,” Sullivan added, mostly for the sake of the Prince. “All Torchwood Archivists had a cranial implant that could kill them, quickly and painlessly, if someone tried to get info from them – be it by drugs or by torture. I don’t blame him that he didn’t want to get into a situation where he’d have to trigger it.”

“Which basically means that all secrets we thought lost through the destruction of Torchwood One are safely nested in the head of a twenty-four-year-old?” the Queen shook her head in disdain. “Was it responsible to load such a burden on somebody who’s still barely more than a child?”

“I don’t think he actually _knows_ anything,” Sullivan said. “The brain activity required for handing such amounts of knowledge would kill him. I believe he knows the passwords and the access codes and the general layout of the Torchwood Archives, so that he can _find_ anything if necessary.”

“That, in its final effect, is basically the same,” Prince William said. “Meaning that he’s extremely valuable for us. But does it make him fit for leadership, too? If he’s a survivor of Canary Wharf, he must be suffering from severe PTSD – can we appoint such a theoretically broken man to lead one of the most important outposts against alien attacks? What about this ex-policewoman? Would she not be better suited? At least she’s a few years older.”

“Hardly,” Sullivan replied dryly. “For starters, she’s a rookie at best. And as soon as Captain Harkness disappeared, her first impulse was to send a report to UNIT, listing up his failings and why she would be the ideal replacement. It’s a good thing that she accidentally sent the message to me, or we’d be up to our eyeballs in damage control. I wouldn’t trust her with my shopping list, save such an important outpost. She’s way too indiscreet and way too ambitious for my taste.”

“Are you telling me that the rest of the team wanted to cover up the disappearance of Captain Harkness?” the Queen frowned. “For what reason?”

Sullivan shrugged. “Perhaps they hoped he’d come back, soon… although the Doctor’s timing has always been lousy. He often erred by several years… or decades, or centuries even – and ended up on the wrong planet more than once. Or they didn’t want UNIT to march in and take over, which I can understand and agree with.”

“At least in Dr Sato’s case it’s understandable,” Prince William admitted; then he looked at his grandmother askance. “So; what are we… what are _you_ going to do?”

The Queen gave the matter some serious thought before answering.

“First, I want to meet young Mr Jones,” she finally said. “It seems to me that he’s the key to Torchwood’s continued existence, in whatever position he will end up. And then, Brigadier, I want you to find out how many of the Canary Wharf survivors are available and still willing to work for Torchwood. Because the Cardiff outpost will need more people if it has to keep going on.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Ianto spent the couple of weeks after Jack’s disappearance in tense expectation. As he’d been just a day or two late with cleaning out Jack’s office, Gwen had gained the first move, and now he couldn’t do anything else but wait. He couldn’t know if Gwen had already contacted anyone on Jack’s list before Tosh would manage to hack into her phone and change the copied numbers; and that made him nervous.

At least they had prevented any further harm – or so he hoped. The altered numbers now connected to completely harmless places. To dry cleaners. To take-away services. To a dentist’s practice. To a car mechanic’s. Even to a couple of seedy gay bars, proving that Tosh had, indeed, a wicked sense of humour if she let her hair down.

In any case, the numbers were useless for Gwen, though Ianto would have liked to see her face, should she try to contact the UNIT liaison, for example, only to end up by a male stripper whose speciality was to perform in various military uniforms.

Still, she did have the real numbers for a couple of days, and there was the distinct possibility that she’d already used the one or other, trying to secure herself a leading position within Torchwood Three.

Or rather _the_ leading position, which seemed to be her main agenda.

The fact that her Sent folder had been wiped clean right after her little break into Jack’s office only cemented Ianto’s suspicions. Unfortunately, while Mainframe could hack into her computer as long as it was connected to the internet – not even Tosh’s help was required for that – they would have to bring the hard drive physically into the Hub to reconstruct the deleted messages.

Ianto briefly considered creating a fake Rift alarm and stealing her computer while the others were hunting nonexistent aliens, but in the end he decided against it. It was too much ado for too little prospective results; and they could do little else than wait for the move of whomever Gwen might have contacted anyway.

Plus, there was always the odd chance to find Rhys at home, and he’d been Retconned often enough by Gwen during the recent year for no acceptable reasons for Ianto to avoid risking to do so again.

So he forced himself to wait which, although he was a patient soul, wasn’t easy for him. He preferred the dangers he already knew, so that he could prepare himself for the fight that was coming well in advance. This uncertainty gnawed on his nerves badly.

Fortunately (?), the Rift had been fairly volatile in these last weeks – just as Jack had predicted it would be. They had several alerts each day, and since they were only four people now and Owen a useless drunk most of the time, Ianto had no other choice than to go out with the others.

That proved a blessing. Running after Weevils or hunting down weird alien tech put his mind off his other concerns. Besides, he could keep up with the best of them. He might have been a junior Archivist at One, but training at Headquarters had been thorough and brutal, and he was a crack shot. Plus he was still fairly young, so he actually enjoyed all the action.

It was in the evenings, which grew further and further into the night, while he was trying to catch up with the accumulated paperwork, when his concerns returned. Sitting in Jack’s office, with only the ghosts of Torchwood’s past as his company (and occasionally Tosh, who was still working on new, stronger firewalls against any possible intrusions) he admitted to himself that he almost wanted the bombshell to finally drop.

Anything would be better than this helpless waiting.

When the bombshell _did_ drop, however, it wasn’t what he’d been accepting. Not at all.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
It was a relatively quiet Friday afternoon. They’d had several Weevil sightings on that day – harmless incidents, thank God; the Weevils had merely strayed from their usual paths and could be driven back to the sewers without bloodshed, which counted as success in these days - but no actual Rift alarm so far. So Ianto persuaded Gwen to go home to Rhys (Owen hadn’t even bothered to show up), promising that he’d call her, should anything of importance happen, and once again sat down to deal with the ever-growing piles of paperwork.

Tosh stayed in, too, using the lull in Rift activity to work on her brand new program that was supposed to forewarn them about said activities. It promised to be an uneventful afternoon… in Torchwood terms.

They had been working on their respective tasks for perhaps an hour when the landline in Jack’s office rang. Ianto picked up the receiver with a quickly forming knot in his guts. That phone was the official Torchwood line; the one that connected them to UNIT, to the PM’s office, to the Home Office and other such places.

The time of reckoning had apparently come.

“Torchwood; Ianto Jones speaking,” he said, barely able to hold the receiver in his suddenly nerveless fingers.

“This is Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart,” the voice of an elderly man with a Scottish accent replied. “Please check your inbox, Mr Jones; there will be a very special invitation for you, coming from the highest places. I was asked to forewarn you so that you won’t think this is someone’s idea of a tasteless joke. Good day, Mr Jones.”

And with that, the man hung up, not waiting for an answer.

“Who was it?” Tosh asked, alerted by the stony silence and Ianto’s petrified expression.

“That,” Ianto replied slowly, “was Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart. Wanting to inform me that I’m about to receive mail from high above.”

“How high above?” Tosh gripped the armrests of her chair so hard her knuckles became bone white.

There could be no doubt now that Gwen had, in fact, contacted somebody before they could have counteracted her efforts. The only remaining question was: whom.

“I don’t know,” Ianto said tonelessly. “But I reckon it should be in my mailbox by now.”

“Then why don’t you go and take a look?”

“Cos I’m _scared_ , Tosh. For the first time since Lisa… since she got overpowered by her programming, I’m scared shitless. The Brigadier is UNIT… or, at least, he used to be. What if they’re indeed about to take over things here? What are we gonna do? No-one of us has a life outside of Torchwood!”

“Apart from Saint Gwen,” Tosh commented cynically. “Well, I won’t have to worry about my future. If UNIT takes over, I’ll be back in prison in no time.”

“I wouldn’t let them take you again,” Ianto overcame his momentary panic; his face hardened. “I’ll help you to leave the country, even if it’s the last thing I can do before they move in. I still have means they don’t know about; I’m the only one who can access the funds of Torchwood One abroad. It’s my fault that I haven’t stopped Gwen in time; I won’t let _you_ suffer the consequences.”

“You were in shock,” Tosh said gently, deeply touched that he’d go such lengths to save her. No-one save for Jack had ever cared. “We all were.”

“That’s no excuse,” Ianto replied blandly. “ _I’m_ the senior agent here; the last one from Headquarters. I should have acted right away.”

“There’s no use crying over spilled milk,” Tosh sighed. “Well, are you going to check your mail or not?”

“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” Ianto opened his password-protected mailing program, clicked on the most recent message – and his jaw hit the floor.

“Nooo,” he said, more shocked than Tosh had ever seen him. “No, this cannot be… This is simply not possible!”

Tosh ducked under his arm to see what had surprised him so much… and had a very similar reaction.

Because the message had come from the highest of places imaginable: directly from Buckingham Palace. Her Majesty, the Queen of England, ordered Ianto Jones, General Support Officer of Torchwood Three, to appear before her presence on the following Tuesday, at 10:00, with a colleague of his choice.

The letter contained the usual identification codes that proved that it had indeed come from the Palace. Acknowledgement of having received the message was also required.

“Now _this_ ,” said Tosh, when they’d recovered from their shock and Ianto had clicked on the required link, "was unexpected. I didn’t know that Jack had the Queen’s personal e-mail address in that phone book of his.”

“He didn’t,” Ianto printed out the message for the Archives – all communication with the Crown had to be recorded and filed away – and closed his mailing program again, just in case. “I doubt that she has one to begin with; and even if she does, no-one but her family would know it.”

“Then how…” Tosh trailed off uncertainly.

“This is an official message, most likely sent by a trusted secretary,” Ianto explained. “I recognize the header and the wording. Yvonne got such messages sometimes.”

“But why would the Queen want to meet you?”

“I reckon Gwen contacted someone from the UNIT brass; perhaps the Brigadier himself, and they went straight to the Queen with the news that Jack’s gone. She is the one to whom Torchwood answers, after all.”

Tosh nodded in understanding. “I see. Is this good for us or bad for us?”

“That’s hard to tell,” Ianto admitted. “Her Majesty has known Jack personally for many years; since her childhood, actually. So she would be reluctant to judge him before hearing his version of the story. On the other hand, she might not be happy with us for trying to keep this from her.”

“So we’re doomed, no matter what?”

“I really don’t know. It’s a fifty-fifty chance. She might give us her full support, since we’re all that’s left of Torchwood – or she might close us down, just as she closed Headquarters after Canary Wharf.”

Tosh nodded thoughtfully. They weren’t out of the woods due to this unexpected twist of events. Not by far.

“So, who will be the colleague of your choice?” she asked, making quotation marks in the air.

That would be a hard decision to make.

“Gwen,” Ianto answered promptly.

“Gwen?” Tosh replied in surprise. “Are you sure about that? She’d do her best to discredit Torchwood in general and you in particular, just to prove how much her enlightened leadership is needed here.”

“I know,” Ianto sighed,” and believe me, she’s the last person I’d want to accompany me when I’m going to see the Queen. But what can I do? I can’t leave her behind to watch the Rift on her own – Cardiff would be levelled and Wales taken over by aliens by the time I got back. Owen is useless at the moment; I can’t count on him to watch the Rift, and I can’t take him with me either. I’d love to take _you_ ; but the sad truth is, I need you here. Desperately. You’re the only one I can trust.”

“But Ianto, I can’t take care of the Rift on my own!” Tosh protested, even though she was flattered by his trust.

Ianto nodded. “I know. That’s why I’m going to see Detective Swanson. I think it’s time to strengthen our ties with the police.”

“Detective Swanson hates Torchwood,” Tosh warned him. 

Ianto smiled, albeit a little sadly. “No; she hated Jack’s attitude and his rabid flirting. But she’s a reasonable woman and a good cop. I meet her from time to time to control the damage done by our intrepid police liaison. She’ll help us when she understands that we do what we do to protect the people of Cardiff.”

“And how, exactly, are you planning to make her understand that?” Tosh asked doubtfully.

“By telling her the truth,” was Ianto’s simple answer.

Tosh shook her head. “That’s too risky. What if she’s resistant to Retcon, like Gwen was? If she runs into a trigger and starts to remember?”

Ianto rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Gwen isn’t resistant to Retcon. Jack messed up the dosage, and you know that. It’s a moot point anyway, though, since I don’t intend to Retcon Detective Swanson.”

“You don’t… you’d allow a police officer to know what Torchwood is about, what we’re doing here?” Tosh asked incredulously.

Ianto shrugged. “Why not? We’re the worst-kept secret in Cardiff anyway, with a Torchwood logo on the SUV big enough to be seen from planetary orbit. I never understood the need for secrecy anyway. Unlike One, we’re not testing alien tech or weapons here.”

“Jack always said the public isn’t ready to know about aliens yet.”

“And he was probably right; although how can people live in a city infested with Weevils and not recognize them as aliens is beyond me. But I don’t want to go public with anything. I just want an ally within the police who actually knows what we’re doing and why and can help us cover up things if necessary. And I think Detective Swanson is the right woman for the job.”

Tosh had to admit that Ianto was right. Detective Swanson was an intelligent, no-nonsense, down-to-Earth woman with a keen sense for justice and responsibility. She would understand the nature of their work; why it was confidential and why the need for cover stories. She’d sign the Official Secrets Act and keep her mouth shut about it. She also had dry sense of humour, which could come in handy when dealing with Torchwood, with or without Jack.

Yes, she was an excellent choice. The fact that her coming aboard would piss Gwen off beyond measure was only an added bonus. If anyone could put her in her place, it was Detective Swanson… as it had been proved in the past, repeatedly.

Still Tosh wasn’t entirely comfortable with the situation. Gwen was unpredictable at her best, and these weren’t her best days, to put it mildly.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Ianto,” was all she said.

“So do I,” Ianto replied darkly. “Unfortunately, our choices are limited at best.”


	7. Negotiations

**CHAPTER 07 – NEGOTIATIONS**

About a week after her… _interesting_ interview with the journalist from the _Cardiff Gazette_ , Detective Swanson found herself in the _Old Sailor_ with Ianto Jones, the head administrator of Torchwood Three. The fact that Jones was the only administrator of Torchwood Three didn’t make his job any less important – on the contrary. Swanson knew that the young man worked for three at the Torchwood base, and some days it showed, too.

This seemed to be one of those days.

Short meetings between them weren’t a rare thing, actually. Swanson needed to co-ordinate her efforts with Torchwood sometimes, and the only Torchwood member she could speak with civilly and even reach some tentative agreements was Jones. Harkness behaved like the whole city would belong to him and Cooper… no, she wasn’t about to even think of Cooper’s behaviour at crime scenes. The thought alone did bad things to her digestion.

She and Jones usually met in the _Little Mermaid_ , as it was close to Roald Dahl Plass and the young man could slip out of their base for half an hour without catching the others’ attention. Oh, Harkness knew; she was sure of that. But even Himself was reasonable enough not to insist on Swanson dealing with their ‘official police liaison’, knowing that it would never lead to anything good.

As she looked around in the _Old Sailor_ , she got the impression that this meeting would be of much greater importance than the other ones. The old-fashioned pub had a couple of separated booths, where people could talk without being overheard, while the level of background noise efficiently rendered any potential listening devices useless. She had to give it to the young man: he certainly knew how to choose the right place for a confidential discussion.

Even though she was, technically, still on duty, she ordered a lager, instinctively feeling that she’d need it. Jones arrived at the same time as her drink, already bringing his own beer with him. Despite his impeccable three-piece suit, he didn’t stand out of the mostly blue collar afternoon crowd. It must have been some extraordinary gift to blend in, Swanson decided.

“Do you ever wear anything else but suits?” she asked. “Outside work, for example, like other young men your age?”

Jones gave her a tired smile. “Last time I went anywhere without my armour I nearly got eaten by the cannibals of Brecon Beacons,” he replied dryly. “Besides, I’m hardly ever off-work; and the Torchwood _I knew_ didn’t exactly encourage casual Fridays.”

“All right, now I’m confused,” Swanson admitted freely. “What is this about, Jones? Why this place? What are you gonna tell me that clearly no-one else is supposed to learn about?”

Jones seemed to hesitate for a moment; then he nodded in appreciation.

“You’re very perceptive, Detective Swanson. All right, I think it’s time to lay the cards on the table. What I’m gonna tell you may never go any further, though. I fear I’ll have to insist that you sign the Official Secrets Act right afterwards. But I decided, and Tosh agreed with me, that you need to learn the truth.”

“It this about Harkness’s disappearance?” at his shocked silence, she only shrugged. “I’m afraid it’s not such a big secret any longer. Cooper babbled to her friends, one of which is married to a civil servant at the City Hall. Who, for his part, works with the husband of Cathy Salt, the science correspondent of the _Cardiff Gazette_. I heard it from her, during an interview about Cooper.”

Jones gritted his teeth and muttered something in Welsh that wasn’t suited to be repeated in decent company. For a moment, he was absolutely, coldly furious. Swanson found it interesting – and, to be honest, even mildly disturbing – how his fury only manifested in his eyes that turned to ice while his face remained carefully blank.

“Yes, it is about Jack’s disappearance; at least partially,” he then said, after he’d put his controls back in place. “But mostly, it’s about Torchwood; its story and its true purpose,” he gave her one of his customary bland smiles and added. “Perhaps you’d like to get something to eat with your drink. This is gonna be a long story; and you might be hard-put to believe half of it. I know _I would_ if I were you.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

About three hours later, now off duty and preparing to leave for home, Detective Swanson had to admit that that had been an understatement. Her mind was still boggling from all the outrageous tales Jones had clearly accepted her to believe.

A Rift in space and time, right under Cardiff, spitting out aliens and alien technology and all sorts of weird stuff?

Aliens with faces like Halloween masks living in the sewers and attacking people randomly?

A nine-hundred-years-old alien guy, travelling through space and time at will in an old-fashioned police box, changing his looks and his personality when killed instead of dying like all decent people?

Jack Harkness, travelling with him and, as a result, unable to die… or rather to remain death, for which reason he’d been with Torchwood Cardiff for a century and a half, never really changing?

The terrorist bombing at Canary Wharf actually a cover-up for the attempt of two different sorts of malevolent aliens to take over the planet?

It was all too fantastic, too much like bad science fiction to be taken seriously.

And yet, deep within, she knew it to be the truth. As one of the very few people with a natural resistance to whatever the government – or, as it seemed now, Torchwood – laced the water system with to make people forget, she remembered some things no-one else seemed to.

The monsters in the sewers. The terrifying, gleaming metallic robots marching down the streets, eliminating everything and everyone in their way. Strange deaths and sightings of creatures beyond human understanding from time to time. The whole business with Suzie Costello that nearly resulted in Gwen Cooper’s death.

That 1950s airplane landing near Cardiff Bay – and then vanishing into thin air, just as mysteriously, a few days later. The illegal fighting club where men were fighting monsters to the death. Not to mention the most recent events that she was still trying to figure out for herself.

Yes, when she considered all those things, she began to see a pattern. A pattern that made her more inclined to believe Jones. She also remembered Andy Davidson’s stories (also too fantastic to believe), whose aunt – or was that an uncle? – used to work for Torchwood Cardiff… until their boss, Harkness’s predecessor, killed them all, including himself, back in 2000.

They all thought it had been sheer, dumb luck that Harkness survived. Now she understood it better. Either his crazed boss hadn’t even tried to kill him, knowing he’d bounce back anyway, or he had been killed with the others… and bounced back, as always.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked, not the least happy about being burdened with such knowledge.

“Because I’ve just been summoned to London… to Buckingham Palace, to be accurate, to give my report to the Queen herself,” Jones explained grimly. “I’m not sure I’ll be returning at all. And if I don’t, Tosh will be in danger. There’s no-one else I can entrust with her safety.”

“But what could I possibly do?” Swanson asked in surprise. “I’m just a cop…”

“If I don’t return, it means Torchwood will be dissolved and another organization – most likely UNIT – will take over,” Jones explained. “They wouldn’t want any of the team around, and they’re beyond ruthless at dealing with unwanted people. I’ve already taken precautions to get Tosh out of the country in that case… but she’ll have to reach her plane for that. So, if I don’t call you on _this_ within the next four days,” he slid a pre-paid phone across the table, “I ask you to put her into a police car, take her to the airport and see that she boards the plane for Japan. She’s got citizenship; she’ll be safe there – or as safe as it’s humanly possible. Will you do this for me? For _her_?”

Swanson nodded. She’d only met the quiet little Japanese woman two or three times, but she found she liked her. Taking somebody to the airport was nothing illegal, either. She could do this.

“What about the others?” she asked. Jones shrugged.

“Honestly, I couldn’t care less what becomes of Gwen, seeing that she brought us into this mess in the first place. If she, or anyone else, tries to tamper with our central computer or our security system, the base will self-destruct. Oh, don’t worry,” he added, seeing her alarmed look. “The base lies deep enough, and is well-shielded. The city won’t be damaged in any way. The only things destroyed would be the Archives and the technology that shouldn’t get into the wrong hands. Tosh and I saw to it.”

“And your doctor?”

“Owen is on his way to drink himself into an early grave,” Jones admitted glumly. “ _If_ I do come back, I’ll have to do something about it; make him get some help. At the moment, though, I can’t do anything. And _what_ I’ll be able to do depends on whom Her Majesty will establish as our new boss. Right now, I’m simply the senior agent, which only entitles me to keep things running until the Crown decides about our fate.”

“What if it’s _you_ who gets assigned as the new Torchwood leader?” Swanson asked.

Jones gave her an alarmed look and a short, mirthless bark that almost counted as a laugh. _Almost_.

“That’s highly unlikely. I’ve got seniority when it comes to service years, true; but I’m not boss material. Besides, I’m needed in the Archives. Desperately. Now that Jack’s gone, I’m the only one with the necessary knowledge about them.”

“Which may be the very reason why Her Majesty would want _you_ to call the shots in the future,” pointed out Swanson logically.

Jones blanched. “God, I hope she won’t! Keeping an eye on Owen and Gwen is bad enough as a temporary assignment. I wouldn’t want to spend the rest of my life babysitting them. Even if life expectations aren’t exactly long when you’re working for Torchwood,” he added cynically. “Unless you’re Jack Harkness, your chances to live beyond your thirtieth birthday are extremely low.”

“Still, I think it’s better for you if you prepare yourself for the possibility,” Swanson said. “Assuming you get to take over – what would be the first thing you’d do?”

“Hire more people,” Jones replied without thinking, which revealed that he had indeed considered the possibility, despite being firmly in denial. “We’ve been ridiculously understaffed, ever since Jack took over. Even with him needing little to no sleep, things were chaotic. We need more field agents, we need more than one tech – he never actually replaced Suzie, and Tosh won’t be able to do all the work by herself, not even with my help – we need at least one forensic scientist, and if Owen continues drinking himself into a stupor each night, we’ll soon need a new doctor, too.”

He shot Swanson a wry look and grinned. “Are you looking for a new job, Detective Swanson?”

“Me?” Swanson shook her head. “No, thanks. I’d like to see my daughter grow up if it’s all right with you. But one from our SOCO-team has grown restless lately. She’s got a PhD in biochemistry and a lesser degree in genetics; now that she’d worked off her student loans, she’d like to do some actual research. I think Torchwood would be right up her street. And she’s single, with no family to endanger – and currently no boyfriend to meddle. I think she’d fit in rather smoothly.”

“Sounds promising,” Jones allowed. “Who is she?”

“Her name is Sara Lloyd… well, _Doctor_ Sara Lloyd, actually,” Swanson replied. “I’m sure you’ve met her at various crime scenes; or at least the others have, seeing that you don’t actually show up at the crime scenes yourself.”

Jones furrowed her brow. “Tall, blonde, in her early thirties, wears her hair in a ponytail? She was the lead SOCO officer during the Suzie incident, wasn’t she? Made a very competent impression.”

Swanson nodded. “That’s her. But how can you know her? You weren’t even there.”

“CCTV footage and photographic memory,” Jones shrugged. “I’ll leave a suggestion for whoever gets to be the next Torchwood Three leader. She sounds like an excellent choice. But when we’re already at it, Detective Swanson, I’d like _you_ to be the new police liaison for Torchwood.”

“I thought _Cooper_ was your police liaison,” Swanson said in surprise.

“Oh yeah, and we both know how well that worked,” Jones snorted. “You and me have been the ones to stay in touch from the day on that I got hired by Jack, and Gwen blundering into the scene only served to alienate just about everyone at the police. Even more than Jack did, which is quite the feat. Besides, what sense does it make to have a police liaison that isn’t even with he police anymore?”

Swanson recognized a rhetorical question when she heard one, so she said nothing, allowing the young man to vent his annoyance a bit.

“Whoever takes over, they’ll need somebody within the force, and you’re the person best suited for the job,” Jones continued. “I’ve got sufficient authority to make it official – _if_ you are willing, that is.”

“It depends,” Swanson said carefully. “Would it entail anything else than what I’ve already been doing?”

“Not on your side,” Jones assured. “You’ll simply be told more of what’s really going on, that’s all. Not _everything_ , though. And you’ll have to sign the Official Secrets Act, of course.”

Swanson nodded slowly. That sounded reasonable. She really didn’t want to know _everything_. Torchwood dealt with some really weird shit; and nightmares weren’t the fun people sometimes made them sound like.

“I’m willing to give it a try,” she said. “But if you want to make it official you have to go through Detective Inspector Henderson. He’s a bit sensitive where the proper chain of command is concerned.”

Jones nodded “I know. I’ve already written the official request but didn’t want to send it before asking you, in case you wouldn’t want it.”

“I see you’re about to build a brand new basis of support,” Swanson commented. “You’ve been seen with that young man from the City Hall, Mr Grainger’s PA, recently.”

“Are you telling me that you keep an eye of us?” Jones asked with a grimace.

“Are you telling me that you didn’t know it?” Swanson countered. “So, what about Mr Hopper? Is he one of your informants?”

Jones shook his head. “No, it’s not like that. I went to school with Idris Hopper. We’re old… well, saying friends wouldn’t quite be true, but we always went on well enough. Drifted apart a bit while I was in London, though. This is the first time we managed to catch up.”

“A strange coincidence,” Swanson commented, clearly not believing it.

“I never said it was one,” Jones answered with a bland smile. “I wasn’t the one who suggested that particular meeting, though.”

“So you’re a man to inspire strong loyalties in others? Even after so many years? Impressive.”

“And why would it be so surprising?” Jones said simply. “I’m a very loyal person myself. Just not always to the people others expect me to be. I have made my fair share of horrible mistakes, though, so I don’t believe myself infallible. Not even where my loyalties are concerned.”

“No,” Swanson said dryly. “That was Harkness’s number.”

“It’s easy to overestimate yourself when you’re already large than life,” Jones sighed. “Jack has his faults; quite a few of them, in fact. But the truth is, he won’t be easily replaced. If I come back from London, I’ll disclose a bit more about him to you – not the whole truth, of course, none of us can hope to know more than fragments, but enough for you to understand why he’s been so important for Torchwood.”

“And if you don’t come back?” Swanson asked.

“Then it’s safer for you to know as little as possible,” Jones replied seriously. “In this case ignorance is bliss. And with a stranger in charge, you won’t need the knowledge, either.”

“You’re giving me the creeps, Jones,” Swanson commented.

“Good,” the young man said grimly. “You’ll be safe enough as long as you remember that Torchwood is a very creepy place.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
After having parted company with Detective Swanson, Ianto returned to the Hub, expecting to find Tosh still there. He was not disappointed.

“How did it go?” their resident genius asked when he descended via invisible lift.

“As well as it could be expected, I suppose,” Ianto replied. “Detective Swanson is an intelligent woman, but there are several aspects outside our power that may be the making of us – or our ruin. There’s simply no way to tell in advance. In any case, she agreed to take you safely to the airport, should I not contact her in due time. In Japan, with your family, you’ll be reasonably safe.”

“What about you, though?” Tosh asked in concern.

Ianto shrugged. “I’ve been on borrowed time since Canary Wharf. Twice so since that horrible mistake with Lisa. By right, I ought to be dead already. I don’t really care. I do care about you, though; and not just cos Jack would want me to – although he would. You’re a friend, and I don’t have many of those left.”

Tosh nodded in understanding and gratitude. Knowing that UNIT wouldn’t get the chance to throw her back into that prison was a relief. Ianto was loyal to a fault, she knew that. The problems always started when two different kinds of loyalties clashed in his life.

Like in Lisa’s case.

“I wish I could do something for you, though,” she said.

“Actually, you can,” Ianto replied. “Idris told me something about Jack helping to thwart Mayor Blaine’s insane nuclear project. You were already here at that time, weren’t you? Can you give me any details?”

Tosh nodded. “Sure. First of all, the Jack your friend was talking about wasn’t our Jack.”

“What?” Ianto was more than a little taken aback by that statement.

“Well, you know he was travelling with the Doctor for a while,” it wasn’t really a question but Ianto nodded anyway. “Only that it wasn’t the same Doctor you and I saw at Canary Wharf. It was the previous regeneration of the Doctor; the ninth one.”

“Bloke with big ears and a big nose, wearing a black leather jacket all the time?” Ianto remembered the description given him by Idris.

Tosh nodded. “Yep. The same one _I was_ travelling with for two years. The same one Jack had been waiting for all the time, in fact.”

“Then why didn’t he go with him back in 2006 already?” Ianto asked, bewildered. Tosh sighed.

“It’s not that simple. The Doctor who visited Cardiff back in 2006 – which, by the way, was the occasion when the perception filter of the lift was created, mainly by accident, I’d say – hadn’t met _our_ Jack yet. In his personal timeline, I mean.”

“I don’t understand,” Ianto admitted unhappily.

He hated not understanding things.

Tosh bit her lower lip. “All right, let’s try a different approach. You know that time, by its very nature, isn’t linear, right? That it’s just the way we experience it?” Ianto nodded. “There are races, the Time Lords above all, who can travel back and forth in time. That way, different timelines are created.”

Ianto nodded again, signalling that so far he’d been able to follow. Tosh took a deep breath.

“Well, the Ninth Doctor – the one both Jack and I used to travel with – met me at an earlier point of his personal timeline than Jack. Which is why I could never speak with him about Jack, even though at that point of my personal timeline I’d already been working for Jack for a while; and in his personal timeline, Jack had already been with Torchwood for a century and a half.”

Ianto raised a hand. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me that while Jack’s spent all this time in a linear way, working for Torchwood in Cardiff, another version of him visited Cardiff with the Doctor in 2006?”

Tosh nodded. “Exactly. He couldn’t go with the Doctor at that time; he couldn’t cross his own timeline. That would have created a temporal paradox and that, according to the Doctor, isn’t something you’d like to experience.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not sure. Something about the Reapers, whatever they are… clearly some kind of Apocalypse could be the result. In any case, Jack, as a former Time Agent, knew that and put the Hub under lockdown, with anyone but me inside, to avoid the risk of running into himself. That would have been… complicated, seeing that his other self was young, carefree – and still mortal, with no idea what he’d become a short time later… relatively speaking.”

“You met him as a mortal?” Ianto tried to conceal the envy in his voice – or was it jealousy?

Tosh shook her head. “No, I couldn’t risk contaminating the timeline like that. I could meet the Doctor, though, as this was, for him, well after our shared adventures. He was travelling with Jack and that blonde bimbo at the time; the one who was also at Canary Wharf with his current regeneration.”

“Rose Tyler,” Ianto muttered. “The stupid git that accidentally made him immortal, killing the previous Doctor in the process and replacing him with the cruel, self-centred prima donna who wouldn’t move a finger to save all those people at Canary Wharf. As long as his blonde bimbo was safe, he couldn’t care less for anyone else.”

“Let’s not discuss the Doctor’s actions at Canary Wharf,” Tosh said. “You know I’m not entirely happy about him, either, but that’s nether here nor there right now. We’re talking about the events in 2006. As you know, Mayor Blaine was, in fact, a Slitheen, who had specifically designed her Blaidd Drwg project to cause a nuclear meltdown, which would have opened the Rift and destroyed the whole planet, only to use the released Rift energy to escape to her homeworld with the help of a tribophysical waveform macrokinetic extrapolator…”

“A what?” Ianto’s eyes started glazing over. “Tosh, you’re losing me!”

“Erm… that was… think of it as some kind of pan-dimensional surfboard,” Tosh explained. “In any case, Jack thought that the extrapolator would halve the time of the refuelling of the TARDIS and tried to install it…”

“The Doctor allowed Jack to fumble around the TARDIS?” Ianto was utterly surprised.

“Ianto, Jack’s from the 51st century and from a different planet,” Tosh remained him. “We can’t even begin to understand what he’s capable of when it comes to advanced alien tech. However, in this case he misjudged the situation; the extrapolator locked onto the power source of the TARDIS and tore open the Rift… and almost the planet itself with it. Had the Doctor not managed to close the TARDIS console and so reseal the Rift in time, we won’t be having this conversation.”

“Clearly, Jack knew why opening the Rift was such a bad idea,” Ianto commented tiredly. “We should have listened to him.”

“We should; but we were blinded,” Tosh replied. “And besides, it’s too late to ponder about that now. We made that mistake, lost Jack in the process, got him back for a short time; then he left with the Doctor, and now we have to live with the consequences.”

“What happened to Mayor Blaine, though… I mean the Slitheen?” Ianto asked. “She seems to have vanished without a trace after the earthquake – that was the Rift opening, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah; just like last time. The Slitheen was reverted to an egg by the light of the TARDIS and the Doctor, Jack and Rose travelled to Raxacoricofallapatorius to deliver the egg, hoping that she’d use her second chance better. According to Jack, they wanted to take Rose’s ex-boyfriend, Mickey Smith, with them, but he wouldn’t join them until later.”

“I never heard of a companion by the name of Mickey Smith,” Ianto frowned.

“Oh, he only was with them for a very short time and chose to remain behind in an alternate dimension for a while,” Tosh replied. “You do know him, though… just under a different name. Does Samuel, Rajesh Singh’s assistant still ring a bell?”

“Samuel?” Ianto repeated in shock. “Samuel was actually a companion who managed to infiltrate Torchwood London? How on Earth was that possible?”

“That’s a long story,” Tosh sighed. “He spent some time in that alternate dimension, fighting Cybermen; then he followed the ‘ghosts’ through the spatio-dimensional rift above Torchwood Tower to Earth. That’s where he went back, together with Rose, when the doctor closed the rift after the Battle of Canary Wharf.”

“Oookay,” Ianto said slowly. “I’ll need time to digest all this. Time I don’t have at the moment.”

“Right; you need to focus on what might be waiting for you in London,” Tosh agreed, concern clearly written in her gentle face. “Especially from the side of your travelling companion. I’m still not sure this is a good idea, Ianto.”

“And I am pretty sure it’s a really bad one,” Ianto grimaced. “Unfortunately, I don’t have any alternatives at the moment.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Gwen felt very smug when she learned that she would accompany Ianto in the Palace. Despite making himself appear undeservedly important, the teaboy clearly didn’t dare to go to such an all-important meeting without her. 

Things were looking more promising that she’d hoped for. Once in London, she’d find the chance to meet the right people – without Ianto, of course – and explain them what had really been going on at Torchwood in the recent year. The authorities would understand then how necessary it was for Torchwood to be reorganized… and that under the right leadership.

Jack’s guerrilla methods had been proven disastrous, several times over, and so had been his incompetence to keep the others in their reins. Of course, if one slept with the staff regularly and turned a blind eye on their misdeeds for sexual favours, one could not expect them to give their best, right?

If, as she hoped, she’d be promoted as the next Torchwood leader – and honestly, who else could be? – there were going to be changes. Both in the methods and in the personnel.

Oh, she would keep Tosh, at least for a while. Tosh was very useful at what she was doing; and she was timid enough to obey when given a clear order. Granted, Jack had spoiled her terribly, allowing her to work on her little pet projects on the sideline, but that would be easily changed. And she’d be needed; until an equally skilled tech could be found, that is.

As for Owen… Gwen shook her head in disappointment. Owen would have to go, as soon as possible. Not only was he rude and inconsiderate, he also neglected his job and did nothing but drink ever since that bitch Diane had left him.

Speaking of which; how was it responsible behaviour to sleep with someone who’d been just spat out by the Rift? Jack hadn’t done so great, either, allowing poor John Ellis to commit suicide in Ianto’s car, instead of helping him to fit in with 21st century society. At least she, Gwen, had done her best to help Emma adapt – and succeeded, hadn’t she? Emma was no living in London and quite happy, working for some fashion house or another – Gwen really couldn’t be bothered to remember the name.

No, Owen had to go. To rehab, most urgently; _Providence Park_ had a fairly good detox programme. Then he needed to be Retconned and set up in a new life somewhere. Yes, it might be a risk to delete several years’ worth of memories, but forgetting Torchwood and Diane might even be therapeutic for him. And what if he did end up as vegetable? In his current state he was barely more anyway.

That left Ianto to deal with, and Gwen was seriously concerned what to do about him. On the one hand, the Welshman was a threat that needed to be taken seriously. Gwen never really bothered herself with the Archives, but even she knew that they were choking full of potentially dangerous stuff, both info and tech. Leaving all this in Ianto’s hands would be disastrous; the incident with the Cyberwoman clearly showed how sneaky and ruthless the teaboy was.

On the other hand, he was the only one who really knew the sodding Archives. He couldn’t be safely removed without getting all the necessary codes and passwords out of him, and Gwen was realistic enough to know that Ianto would never give them _her_ willingly. Fortunately, there were other ways to extract information – by force, if necessary. UNIT, or MI5, or any other of those shadowy organizations would know, eventually. They would have the tech, or the truth drugs, or whatever was needed.

Until then, Gwen would force herself to play nice with Jack’s little bed-warmer. Come time, though, even Ianto would have to learn – one way or another – that offering his favours would no longer buy him any privileges. Unlike Jack, Gwen Cooper was not inclined to cradle robbery… and she couldn’t be bought for sex.

Besides, it would only be a problem until the higher powers had found a trustworthy archivist for Torchwood Three. After that Ianto, too, would be Retconned and removed, and Torchwood Three could start into a new era, under the competent leadership of Gwen Cooper.


	8. Audiences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The _Julius Caesar_ is a really existing hotel. I actually stayed there during one of my London trips; the lift was indeed claustrophobia-inducing, and by the time it finally reached the 5th level, I was paralyzed with fear. *g*
> 
> Gwen’s dress is the same one she wears in “Out of Time” when going to a disco with Emma and Rhys.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER 08 – AUDIENCES**

To save resources, Ianto and Gwen took the train to London. Gwen pouted unhappily, but Ianto explained her with forced patience that while he did have the _means_ to access the resources of Torchwood One, he didn’t have the _authority_ to do so; and he wouldn’t find it ethical to plunder Jack’s personal account, even though he could have done so. Hence the train trip which was much cheaper than going by car – not to mention by plane, which Gwen would have preferred.

Said trip was then surprisingly quiet. Gwen refused to talk to Ianto – which, frankly, was fine with him; he’d dreaded the possibility of having to listen to her inane chatter all the way to London.

Being reasonably familiar with London from his university years (and the ones spent at Headquarters), Ianto had booked them two single rooms in one of those cheap hotels scattered around Hyde Park that all had very nice bars and foyers but rather... run-down rooms on the upper levels.

Needless to say that Gwen wasn’t very happy with their accommodations, either.

“One would think that Torchwood could afford better rooms for its employees on an official trip,” she groused as the outdated lift of _Hotel Julius Caesar_ asthmatically wheezed up with them to the fifth level… which took approximately six or seven minutes.

“ _Torchwood_ might,” Ianto replied, unimpressed by her whining. “ _We_ can’t. This is not a field trip, Gwen; we’ve been _summoned_ and will most likely be debriefed. It’s gonna take time; I have no idea how long. I had to pick a hotel that we can afford, even if we have to stay in London for a week… or two.”

“You mean that I’m going to pay for this fetid hole myself?” Gwen demanded in shocked disbelief.

Ianto shrugged. “So am I; and my salary is only marginally better than yours. Now, I suggest that you do whatever unpacking you need to do and refreshen a bit, cos somebody ought to come and fetch us for our audience in half an hour, sharp,” he gave Gwen’s street urchin outfit a pointed look. “Oh, and try to remember that we’re about to make an appearance in the very heart of the British nation; do put on something more… proper, will you?”

Gwen’s only answer was an angry scowl but Ianto couldn’t care less whether she was affronted or not. He needed to refreshen himself after the train trip as much as she did, and neither of them had a lot of time to do so.

They were going to see the _Queen_. One had to look one’s best at such a rare occasion.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Twenty minutes and thirty-five seconds later Ianto – wearing his sober, pin-striped charcoal grey three-piece suit that, fortunately, survived the train trip in an impeccable state, and aubergine button down shirt, a self-patterned bronze tie and his better pair of dress shoes – left his hotel room again. He was perfectly groomed, every single hair on his head firmly in place, smelled faintly of sandalwood aftershave and carried a black leather briefcase secured with a combination lock.

He took a deep breath and knocked on Gwen’s door with mild anxiety, not quite knowing what to expect.

“Gwen, are you ready? We’ll be picked up in ten.”

In the next moment the door was thrown open in a dramatic gesture, and Gwen stood in the doorframe, wearing her own version of the classic little black dress … a fairly form-hugging and low-cut one.

“Well?” she demanded. “Proper enough for you?”

“Sixty per cent less cleavage would be preferable, but it will do,” Ianto replied dryly. “Let’s go; I’m sure we’re already expected in the foyer.”

They rode the asthmatic lift down to the ground level and entered the foyer right on time – to the visible relief of a tall, dark-haired man in an expensive suit who stood out of the crowd (consisting of small-budget tourists, mostly) like a sore thumb. Even Gwen, not the most observant person on the planet, spotted him at once.

“That’s him?” she asked softly, her eyes widening with the realization that things were about to get very serious, very soon. “Do you think he’s an agent of the Secret Service or somesuch?”

“Hardly,” Ianto snorted. “Firstly, he’s unarmed; no holster under his suit jacket. Secondly, the suit he’s wearing is a custom-made one; at least Ł700. His nails are manicured and his forehead is permanently wrinkled. I’d say he’s a posh office worker serving in the Palace, with a small dog… no, two small dogs…well, three, actually.”

“You’re making this up!” Gwen said accusingly.

Ianto shook his head and smiled. “No, I’m not. Look at his shoes: he’s clearly an indoor worker. A right-handed one, judging by the way his hands are folded in front of him. “

“So, you’re Sherlock Holmes now?” Gwen’s voice was dripping with sarcasm.

“Not at all,” Ianto took no offence; he was used to her belittling him in most things. “It’s simple observation. We were all trained in such things at One.”

“If you say so,” Gwen allowed doubtfully. “But what about the dogs?”

“Wiry hairs on the cuff of his trouser leg,” Ianto pointed out. “A few hairs of different colour higher up the same trouser leg. And more hairs on the other trouser leg. Quite simple, really.”

Without waiting an answer from Gwen, he crossed the foyer, addressing the man in question directly. “Excuse me, sir; I believe you’re looking for me. My name is Jones. Ianto Jones, from Torchwood Cardiff.”

“Plummer,” the man shook his hand in obvious relief. “I am to take you to the Palace, Mr Jones. You and your colleague, Ms…?”

“Gwen Cooper,” Gwen said hurriedly before Ianto could have and gave the man her most winning smile. “Nice to meet you, Mr Plummer.”

Ianto rolled his eyes, cos Plummer was clearly not much more than an errand-runner and therefore not worth wasting any charm on him, but he was not about to tell Gwen _that_.

She wouldn’t listen to him anyway. She never did.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Mr Plummer led them out of the hotel to a sleek black car that was parking nearby, driven by a gorilla in a suit. Figuratively speaking. The expensive leather upholstery alone was more worth than the entire shoebox Ianto called his flat, but he did his best to remain unimpressed. 

Gwen, on the other hand, made no secret of her delight about being treated in such a posh manner. A girl was allowed to enjoy her creature comforts, after all.

The gorilla behind the steering wheel had clearly been trained well. They reached the Palace in record time and entered it through a side door via internal lift directly from the garage. They went along various corridors before being shown into an enormous, ornate hall with massive crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and the walls covered in gold brocade wallpaper – or was that actual fabric?

Gwen couldn’t help but stop for a moment to admire the beauty of the sight, cos it was _Buckingham Palace_ , and just how often did a girl get to see _that_? How could Ianto still remain blank-faced in this place? Had the teaboy no understanding of the grandeur of the moment?

To her regret, she couldn’t enjoy the view for too long. Mr Plummer was already getting impatient, gesturing them towards a nearby room – clearly the one in which they were expected. With a disappointed sigh, she followed Ianto. Mr Plummer waited for them to enter – and then walked away.

It was clearly a small audience room; one designed for more… relaxed interviews or personal meetings. Aside from the beautiful mantelpiece – a piece of art in white marble in itself – the furniture consisted of a small, round table with a sofa on either side of it; nineteenth century handiwork, all three of them.

On the left-hand sofa was sitting an elderly gentleman with a strong chin, wavy iron-grey hair and dramatic sideburns. Despite the fact that he was wearing civilian clothes, his entire demeanour all but screamed military. Navy, if the sideburns were any indication. He was well into his 60s, but still ruggedly handsome and highly alert. Ianto easily recognized him as Commodore Sullivan, since he had visited Torchwood London repeatedly.

Another elderly gentleman was standing at the mantelpiece ramrod straight, not leaning against at it at all. Ianto had never seen him in person, but even filled out considerably and white-haired, Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart was quite an unmistakable figure. A quick observation categorized him as a dog-lover, a horse-rider, a non-smoker and a tea drinker; most likely an early riser, too, which wasn’t really surprising from somebody who spent his entire life in the military.

The third man in the room was a lot younger, probably in his mid-40s, with a round, friendly face and watery blue eyes. He was also wearing a kilt.

“Sir Archibald!” Ianto exclaimed in relief. “I didn’t expect _you_ to be here, to be honest.”

Sir Archibald McAllister – or, as Jack liked to call him, Archie from Torchwood Two – shrugged.

“Where else shouldae be, laddie? We _are_ Torchwood; and whatever is happenin’ to you, it’s goin’ t’have an effect on _my_ life, too.”

“The Queen and Prince William will be joining us in a few minutes,” Commodore Sullivan added. “I assume you’ve been properly trained where the protocol about making the royal family is concerned, Mr. Jones?”

Ianto nodded. “Yes, sir. Ms Hartman was very much concerned about proper behaviour where important visitors were concerned.”

“Rather unlike Jack, I’d assume,” the commodore grinned. “Which means that your… _associate_ probably has no idea how to behave in the Palace.”

“It’s not her fault, sir,” Ianto replied, valiantly withstanding the temptation to add _this time_ while Gwen was fuming, of course. “Jack had a rather… relaxed attitude towards protocol.”

“Well, he could afford it,” Sir Archibald commented with a snort. 

“You two, on the other hand, cannot,” the commodore continued; then he looked directly at Gwen, her friendly eyes hardening just a little. 

“Nice to meet you in person, Miss Cooper. Your message to me was… educational, I’d say. Now allow me to return the favour and provide you with a bit of education in exchange. You are about to meet Her Majesty, the Queen of England; this is a privilege and an honour few people can call their own. Should it ever happen to you again, I strongly advise you to dress more decently. This is Buckingham Palace, in case you haven’t realized yet, not a 1990s disco. Also: the Queen may or may not ask _you_ any questions, seeing that she has primarily summoned Mr Jones. If she does, you’ll address her as Your Majesty or Ma’am. Prince William is addressed properly as Your Highness. Do you understand?”

Gwen was torn between righteous indignation and shock. She had not expected to meet Commodore Sullivan with Ianto present – the plan had been to seek out the man in private and talk to him under four eyes. And she did not appreciate the old man's unasked-for lecture about proper dressing. She _did_ know how to dress properly, thank you very much. She used to work in a fashion boutique, after all, and they weren’t living in the 19th century anymore.

“Good,” the commodore said, not waiting for a formal answer.

There wasn’t time for one either, as a side door opened and in walked the Queen herself, wearing a knee-length primrose dress, accompanied by her oldest grandson. Prince William was wearing a steel-grey bespoke suit in which he looked very handsome indeed. 

But that wasn’t what surprised Gwen most.

“He… he looks just like Banana Boat!” she blurted out; unfortunately, loud enough for the royals to overhear.

As little flattering as it was for the future heir of Britain’s throne to be compared with Rhys’s notorious womanizer, often stone drunk best mate, now that he’d seen the prince in the flesh, Ianto had to admit that there was a marked resemblance between the two. Of course that didn’t make the situation less embarrassing His ears were burning and he knew they must be bright red.

Prince William noticed Ianto’s discomfort and made an amenable effort to dissolve the tension in the room.

“I gather that wasn’t a particularly flattering notion,” he said with a friendly grin.

Ianto assumed this had to be the way he behaved among his fellow airmen to put them at ease about serving with royalty.

“No, Your Highness,” he replied flatly. “I’d say it was a notion born of ignorance and best forgotten.”

Gwen just opened her mouth to tell Ianto off but the Commodore intervened smoothly before she could have put her foot in again.

“Ma’am, if I may introduce Mr Ianto Jones, formerly a junior archivist of Torchwood London, now general support officer and senior agent of Torchwood Cardiff – and Miss Cooper, the newest member of the Cardiff branch.”

Gwen didn’t like at all that her rookie status had been so expressly emphasized but found it better to remain silent for the time being. One _faux pas_ per moment was more than enough, even for her.

“Thank you, Commodore,” the Queen said, her face unreadable, while that of Prince William showed only polite interest. “Please have a seat, all of you. We have important things to discuss and little time to do so.”

When they had all found a seat and tea had been served, the Queen looked directly at Ianto and said without preamble:

“Mr Jones, I am too old and have too many obligations to beat around the bush, so I expect direct and truthful answers from you. Is it true that Captain Harkness left with the Doctor, without leaving any orders concerning his temporary replacement _or_ his succession?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Ianto replied simply.

“And you tried to keep that fact concealed from the authorities, is that also correct?” the Queen continued.

Ianto shot Gwen a side glance that could have frozen Hell over but answered truthfully. “ _Tried_ is the key word, Ma’am.”

“Why would you want to do so?”

“Two reasons, Ma’am. Firstly, we couldn’t know if Jack… if Captain Harkness planned to come back any time soon. I wanted to give him a chance to do so before I’d sound the alarm.”

The Queen nodded. “That, at least, sounds plausible. What was the other reason?”

Ianto glanced briefly at the Brigadier and Commodore Sullivan before answering to _that_.

“No offence to the worthy gentlemen present, Ma’am, but I didn’t want UNIT to move in and take over everything. The Rift is… special. It needs special care. I do not believe UNIT would be able to provide that care. They are a bit too trigger-happy to deal with the Rift properly.”

“But _you_ would be able to do so?” Prince William asked, clearly not convinced. “You’re younger than I am. What makes you think you can take over such responsibility?”

“I can’t; not on my own, at least,” Ianto agreed. “I’m an archivist, not a field agent, and we’d definitely need more people, a bigger team, now that Jack… that Captain Harkness is gone for who knows how long. I’m afraid it won’t be easy to find a replacement for him – if that is Her Majesty’s intention,” he added with a respectful nod in the Queen’s direction. “But the Rift has been in Torchwood’s care since the 19th century, and I firmly believe that Torchwood is best suited to watch it. Our outpost has been built for this very purpose, after all.”

“We wouldn’t have a problem to begin with if Jack hadn’t run off into the blue, abandoning us and _his_ duty,” Gwen muttered angrily. “If he really was such a saint as you’re trying to colour him now why did you help us to open the Rift against his orders, just a couple of weeks ago?”

Ianto closed his eyes in despair. Trust Gwen to blurt out the biggest, most horrible mistake Torchwood Three had made since 1 January 2000, when its leader had massacred the entire team to save them from some nebulous future terror – well, save for Jack, of course.

“I was misled like the rest of us,” he answered with forced patience. “It was a fatal mistake, I know that now. And I know that no amount of regret will make those one hundred and thirty-eight people who died as a result alive again. But at least _I wasn’t_ the one who shot Jack dead, so that we could get his retina print by force.”

“No; _that_ was Owen,” Gwen shot back.

Ianto rolled his eyes. “And whose idea was it to go against Jack’s orders in the first place?”

“Wait!” the Brigadier interrupted before Gwen could have answered. “That most recent earthquake in Cardiff, all those deaths… it was the result of the Rift opening?”

“Yes, sir,” Ianto admitted tonelessly. “It was all our doing. We were made to believe that opening the Rift fully would put an end to other realities leaking through. We were wrong. Jack knew it, he warned us that we’d only make everything worse, but we weren’t listening.”

“And why was nobody informed about those facts?” the Brigadier demanded angrily.

“Actually,” Sir Archibald coughed, “ _I was_. Mr Jones sent me a detailed report of those events, openly admittin’ his own role in the disaster. A copy o’ his report has been also sent to Torchwood House for archivin’. Seein’ as Torchwood House doesnae have a custodian at the moment, though…”

“You made a report?” Gwen hissed at Ianto. “And you sent it to _him_ , without the rest of us knowing it?”

“I do not answer to you, Gwen,” Ianto replied tiredly. “If you’d made an effort to study proper Torchwood protocol, however, you’d know that in the current situation I do answer to Sir Archibald. He’s the only Torchwood leader left, even if the Glasgow branch consists only of him at the moment. As the archivist of Torchwood Three, I’m obliged to inform the other Torchwood leaders when ours isn’t available.”

“Oh, don’t get all prim and proper on me, Teaboy!” Gwen spat. “You weren’t such a stickler to the rules when you were hiding that blasted Cyberwoman in our very basement.”

In the deafening silence she whirled around to glare at Sir Archibald accusingly. “Or has he sent you a report about _that_ , too?”

“Nay, lass,” the Torchwood Two leader answered calmly. “He told me everythin’ in person when he came over to reorganize our archives, which, admittedly were in a shambles. Offered me to file a full confession and send a copy to Torchwood House as well.”

“Yet you refused the offer, obviously,” the Queen said. “May I ask why?”

Sir Archibald nodded. “Aye Ma’am that I did. Jack clearly wanted t’ give the lad a second chance and I didnae want to be an obstacle; trusted Jack t’ know what he was doin’.”

“I see,” the Queen turned to Ianto. “Would you care to tell us, Mr Jones, why did you take such an unreasonable risk? You _were_ at Canary Wharf; one of the very few people who survived the battle. You know what those… creatures were capable of.”

“The Cyberman in question used to be my fiancée,” Ianto confessed tonelessly. “Her conversion was not complete. I hoped to find a way to reverse it and save her. I even consulted Dr. Tanizaki, one of Earth’s lead cybernetics experts, and he made me hope.”

“A fat lot of good did it do him,” Gwen commented.

“We were told on good authority that such a thing is not possible,” the Queen looked at the Commodore. “Have we been misinformed? You were there; saw the aftermath of that battle. Was there truly any hope to save those people?”

Sullivan shook his head. “As a rule, the conversion is irreversible. However, there had been random moments when somebody with strong enough willpower retained their personality, even after full conversion. We know for a fact that Yvonne Hartman did – at least long enough to create a diversion and thus enable the Doctor to get through with his plan and save us all. Of course, this doesn’t mean that she wouldn’t have been overwhelmed by the Cyber-programming eventually. Still, without her strength we may not be having this conversation right now.”

“You mean he was _right_ to keep a Cyberwoman in our basement?” Gwen stared at the commodore in furious disbelief. “That… that… _thing_ killed two people, _I_ nearly got converted, Jack covered up his shit because he was shagging him, and you say he was _right_?”

“No,” Sullivan replied flatly. “I say that it was a horrible but understandable mistake, and Captain Harkness clearly was of the same opinion. You, Miss Cooper, should remember in whose presence you are, though, and try to change your wording accordingly.”

Gwen opened and closed her mouth several times in impotent fury, making a very convincing impression of a traumatised goldfish. The fact that the very man she’d contacted to reveal to him the unforgivable lashness and favouritism of Jack’s failed leadership would turn on her and support _Ianto_ was beyond her understanding.

Were they all _insane_? Couldn’t they see that Ianto had endangered, Torchwood Three from the very day on he shagged himself into Jack’s good graces, almost got them all killed, not just that crazy old scientist and that poor pizza girl, nearly got her converted – and Jack let him get away with it all? Just because of his willing arse?

And that Archie bloke from Glasgow, he’d known it all the time and did _nothing_? She shook her head in shocked disbelief but unfortunately, no-one paid her any attention. They all seemed to be focused on Ianto instead; as if they hadn’t realised what a lying little bitch he was.

 _Jack’s lying little bitch_ , a cruel little inner voice mocked her. She suppressed it ruthlessly.

“Mr Jones,” the Queen said with quiet authority. “You told us repeatedly that Torchwood is best suited to watch the Rift. You will understand, I presume, that in the light of what we have just learned we have difficulties to believe that.”

“I understand that, Ma’am,” Ianto replied, guilt clearly written in his young face. “However, I still firmly believe that the Rift is Torchwood’s responsibility and should remain that.”

“A responsibility you and the others haven’t dealt with too well,” Prince William pointed out, not unkindly but consequently. “You’ve gone so far as to kill your leader who tried to sop you making a grievous error of judgement. Can you guarantee us that it would not happen again?”

“No, your Highness, I’m afraid I cannot,” Ianto admitted. “I do hope, though, that we’ve learned from our mistake; at least _most_ of us have,” he added, studiously _not_ looking in Gwen’s direction.

There was no need for that. His point had clearly been made already.

A long silence followed, and then the Queen exchanged meaningful looks with her grandson.

“Prince William and I need to discuss this in private,” she then said. “Please wait for us here. Sir Archibald, you will join us; we might need additional data and you seem to be in possession of such data.”

“What about us?” the Brigadier asked.

“Your opinions are known to us already, Sir Alistair. Please remain here with our guests.”

The old soldier snapped to attention automatically. “Yes, Ma’am!” he replied crisply.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
As soon as they were left alone – well, save for the presence of Commodore Sullivan and the Brigadier – Ianto whirled around and glared daggers at Gwen.

“What the hell was _that_ supposed to mean?” he snarled. “Do you want to get Torchwood closed? ‘Cos if that was the plan, you’ve done a bloody good job of it. You might even get your wish yet.”

Gwen stared back at him in shock. “How can you say that, Ianto? I only tried to save Torchwood!”

“I say, you have a strange way to show it, Miss,” the commodore commented dryly.

Gwen ignored him. She had hoped to find an ally in him but he’d turned out as another one of Jack’s sycophants, therefore he no longer counted. She had to deal with Ianto right now.

“You must admit that things can’t continue the way they were handled under Jack’s leadership,” she argued. “He never told us anything, there was no discipline, everyone could do what they wanted.”

“Look who’s speaking,” Ianto said with biting irony. “If memory serves me well, _you_ were the one who violated every single rule. _You_ blurted out things to Andy _and_ Rhys, and then took Retcon without asking or getting permission to make them forget.”

Gwen tried to interrupt him but Ianto was on the roll and couldn’t be stopped. All the things that had ever annoyed him about Gwen came to the surface and wanted out.

“ _You_ were the one who came to work whenever you wanted and couldn’t be bothered to do your own paperwork,” he continued mercilessly. “ _You_ were the one who ignored Jack’s orders all the time ‘cos you were so sure that you know it better than him who’d been doing this job for a century and a half, endangering the whole team _and_ innocent bystanders in the process.”

“I never,” Gwen protested but Ianto steamrolled him in a manner that would have made Jack proud.

“ _You_ were the one who instigated the whole rebellion against Jack, declaring that you’d end the world happily only to get Rhys back – and then you ignored him for days, sitting in the morgue with Jack’s body. _You_ were the one who did your best to get into Jack’s pants while flinging your oh-so-happy relationship in the face of us poor, lonely losers; never mind the fact that you were fucking Owen on the side.”

He paused expectantly but Gwen was momentarily unable to even think up a retort, much less to voice it.

“No comments?” Ianto taunted her. “Well, good. What bothered us most was that Jack let you get away with everything, for reasons none of us could fully understand. Under any other Torchwood leader you’d have been fired and Retconned back to your diapers after the first week; so don’t you _dare_ to say anything against Jack’s leadership!”

Such a vicious outburst from the always quiet, mild-mannered teaboy surprised and angered Gwen very much. How did he _dare_ , the filthy little traitor, to speak to her like that? Wasn’t it him who nearly got them all killed? And got away unpunished by offering up his arse to Jack? Didn’t he know that he’d been merely a substitute – a part-time shag as Owen always said – just because Jack had been so unreasonably considerate towards Rhys?

She opened her mouth to launch into a lengthy tirade but the commodore cut her in the word before she could have started.

“Be quiet, Miss Cooper. You’ve already betrayed your colleagues by sending a report behind their backs to the very authorities they _didn’t_ want to inform about the disappearance of Captain Harkness, for reasons that I find sound, now that they have been explained. Fortunately, your mean-spirited little epistle landed on _my_ desk; otherwise the consequences could have been… dire. For you as well as for them. Or are you naïve enough to believe that _you_ would have got away unscathed once they’d shut Torchwood Three down? You, the rookie, the newest, least experienced team member? Oh, please!”

Before Gwen could answer – not that she could have thought of any coherent answer at the moment – the side door opened again and the Queen returned.


	9. The Queen's Justice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The details of Prince William’s military career are genuine, as far as one can believe Wikipedia. I’ve just moved some events a bit in time to fit this story.
> 
> The Queen’s reasoning for her choice as the new Torchwood director was suggested by weis07. Owen’s problems have been summarised by dr_doomsduck a few years ago. I only rephrased them to fit the dialogue better. Thanks for your contribution, ladies!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER 09 – THE QUEEN'S JUSTICE**

“Please, sit,” she said in her usual controlled manner. “We have discussed the problem – with the valuable contribution of Sir Archibald – and have come to the conclusion that Torchwood must remain in control of the Rift.”

Ianto closed his eyes, dizzy with relief. He didn’t really care whom Her Majesty would appoint as the new Torchwood Three leader. He didn’t care if he personally would be punished or not. What counted was that UNIT wouldn’t move in and take over. Tosh would be safe. Jack’s work, faulty though it might have been in some places, would prevail.

“However,” the Queen continued sternly, “there will have to be definitive changes in the ways how Torchwood has been led until now. And for that reason we decided to appoint Mr Jones as the new Torchwood director – not only as the leader of the Cardiff branch but as the head of the entire organization… what is still left of it.”

It was a rare thing that Ianto would lose his composition. _This_ was one of those rare times.

“Me, Ma’am?” he stuttered. “But… but I’m an archivist, not a field agent! And I’m too young for such responsibility. Surely, Sir Archibald…”

“Sir Archibald has his own duties, of which you no doubt are well aware,” the Queen interrupted him in a tone that brooked no argument. “And Torchwood Two, as you all know, is but an office in Glasgow. Torchwood Three is the only still functional branch, and you’re the only surviving archivist of Headquarters. The only one who knows the codes and passwords to access the legacy of Torchwood One. You may not be a field agent, but like all Torchwood One members, you _have_ been trained for field work if needs must be; including weapons training. And you have the administrative power. You may not be the best chance, true; but right now, you are the _only_ chance.”

At this point Gwen couldn’t remain silent any longer.

“But Your Highness, you can’t seriously consider making _him_ the leader of Torchwood!” she protested.

The Commodore flinched. Despite wearing an Irish name, he was English to the bones and took such glitches in protocol very seriously.

“The correct way to address the Queen is _Your Majesty_ ,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’ve already told you that.”

The Queen waved dismissively.

“Let it be, Commodore. We cannot expect a person like her to remain conscious of the protocol,” she then turned to Gwen. “We do not appreciate your efforts to make Captain Harkness responsible for everything that went wrong with Torchwood lately. We know what he is like and what he has done for Crown and country in the last two centuries. Your slander has not changed our opinion about him.”

She turned back to Ianto. “Captain Harkness saved my life; I am sure you can find the details somewhere in your archives. You and your colleagues failed him – this is your chance to make amends. I will make you step in his shoes. I think this is punishment enough; a more severe one than anything else I could inflict upon you, Mr Jones. You weren’t loyal enough to your captain; although, as one trained at Headquarters, you should have known better. I hope in the upcoming days you won’t be so foolish.”

“No, Ma’am,” Ianto murmured.

“We have decided that Torchwood has to be standing,” the Queen declared. “Captain Harkness deemed you worthy a second chance. We are not about to dispute his decision. And while Captain Harkness is not here, you _will_ step in his stead and serve your Queen and country. For his sake, Mr Jones. Are you ready?”

Ianto sighed dejectedly. There was really just one answer he could give and they both knew it.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he said in defeat.

This was not what he wanted; what he’d _ever_ wanted. This was not what he’d been trained for. But if this was the price to pay to save Torchwood – to save Tosh and the clueless people of Cardiff, sitting atop the Rift – he was willing to pay it. _Someone_ had to; and at least this would give him purpose again.

He made a mental note to thank Detective Swanson for preparing him for this possibility. He didn’t understand why Sir Archibald was beaming at him with such fatherly pride. He felt woefully unfit for the role. But he would do his best, as always. He had no other choice, had he?

“Very well,” the Queen said with an almost-smile, giving him the absurd feeling that he had somehow met her expectations. “We do not want to leave you without support in this difficult situation, though. That is why we shall appoint a new liaison between Torchwood and the Crown,” she looked at her grandson expectantly.

Prince William nodded. “I’ll be training with the Navy for two months, from June to August, but after that I’m going to transfer my commission to the Search and Rescue Training Unit at RAF Valley on Anglesey, to be trained as a helicopter pilot with the Royal Air Force’s Search and Rescue Force. That means I will be living in Wales for the next couple of years, which will come in very handy. Until then you can contact my private office here in the Palace, should you need any help. My advisor, Sir David Manning, will be happy to support you if necessary.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” breathing felt slightly easier now, Ianto found. With a royal supporter strengthening his position, he might actually be able to hold his own against UNIT – and even against Defence Minister Saxon who didn’t seem to like Torchwood very much.

“However,” the prince continued, grinning excitedly like a kid, expecting a visit in his favourite candy shop, “before I’d have to leave for the royal Naval College, I want to be given the grand tour of that Batcave of yours.”

For the first time since he’d been summoned to the Palace, Ianto could actually smile freely.

“I reckon that can be arranged, Your Highness,” his smile widened a millimetre or two as he thought about the logistics of smuggling the prince into the Hub. “We can always pretend that we’ve invited Banana Boat for a visit, can’t we, Gwen?”

Gwen’s only answer was a murderous glare. Prince William laughed.

“I can live with that. It won’t be worse than being called Billy the Fish, as my fellow airmen used to do to keep the paparazzi off my scent. I’ll have you contacted to work out the details as soon as your other affairs in London have been taken care of.”

“My… other affairs?” Ianto repeated in vague suspicion.

“You’ve said yourself that you’d need a bigger team,” the commodore interfered, “and we happen to agree. Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart and my humble self have looked up a few possible candidates and arranged a meeting with them for tomorrow, so that you can evaluate and eventually debrief them.”

“Anyone I might know?” Ianto asked, assuming – correctly, as it would later show – that they had sought out some survivors from Torchwood One.

“Some of them,” the commodore replied. “Others, the Brigadier and I know and can suggest with good conscience. You’ll meet them in Prince William’s private office, as His Highness wants to be present at the meeting.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” the Prince added. “I must admit that I’m curious to see how such things work and what the requirements to become a Torchwood member are.”

“You are quite welcome to join us of course, Your Highness,” Ianto replied politely.

Not that he could have refused the request. In fact, the prince didn’t need to ask in the first place, now that he had been officially appointed by the Queen to oversee Torchwood’s activities. But Ianto really didn’t mind his presence; on the contrary. The request showed an honest interest from the prince’s side; and frankly, having somebody of his own age watching his back, somebody powerful and influential and generally liked was a relief.

“Very well,” the Queen rose and all followed suit respectfully. “I am certain that you can discuss any further details among yourselves, gentlemen. We have other duties to attend to. Good day, Mr Jones; do not make us regret our decision.”

“I will do my best, Ma’am,” Ianto promised, and he meant it. He _would_ do his utmost to prove himself worthy of her trust.

“That is all we can ask,” the Queen said with a small, satisfied nod. “Come on, William. Our next appointment awaits.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Barely had the royals left when Sir Archibald turned to Ianto.

“Mind ya, laddie, I wannae sit in on that meeting meself. It’s yer business whom ya hire, naturally, but I wouldae like to know whom I’ll be goin’ to work with in the future.”

“You’re welcome to join us, Sir Archibald,” Ianto replied. “In fact, I’d appreciate every input from you. I’m not exactly boss material, I’m afraid.”

Sir Archibald laughed. “And ya think _I am_? D’ya know what Yvonne used to call me? ‘That madman from Glasgow’, that’s how.”

“Still better than ‘the Freak of Cardiff’, as she liked to call Jack,” Ianto answered dryly. “I never understood why the two hated each other so much. Yvonne wasn’t so bad, actually; certainly not the monster as UNIT likes to present her, now that she can’t defend herself. Yes, she was determined, ruthless even in pursuing her goals, but isn’t that what’s expected from every corporate manager? Why they’re being hired to begin with?”

The Brigadier harrumphed unhappily.

“She played a dangerous game with all that alien technology at her disposal, without understanding the risks,” he said. “And we all know how it ended, don’t we?”

“There are dangerous experiments running in secret labs all over the globe,” Ianto returned sharply. “Some of them are run by UNIT personnel. Every single one of them could end in a spectacular disaster at any given moment. And let me tell you something, sir: my colleagues at One knew what they were doing. Torchwood only recruited from the best and the brightest.”

“One has to wonder what _you_ have been hired for then,” Gwen said nastily. “For your coffee or for your willingness to spread ‘em for the boss.”

“For my photographic memory, actually, although I seriously doubt that you know what _that_ is,” Ianto replied, completely unfazed by her allusions. “I think someone who lives in a glass house shouldn’t throw rocks, Gwen. You’ve been willing enough to spread ‘em for Jack, from the moment you entered the Hub for the first time, despite the fact that you have that good-natured, long-suffering fool at home who worships the earth you walk on. It’s not your doing that Jack never really wanted you. Not after the first wave of lust he felt for practically everyone.”

“How do you _dare_ …” Gwen was already raising her hand to slap him across the face but Ianto caught her wrist and held it effortlessly.

“Like it or not, Gwen, I’m officially your boss now, and I speak to you as I see fit. Be grateful that I’m not inclined to pretty vengeance, seeing the way you treated both me and Tosh in the previous year. I am willing to overlook that as a sign of your ignorance and because Jack was certainly giving you the wrong impression that you’re entitled to order us around as you please, but that will stop, here and now.”

“Or what?” Gwen snapped. Ianto’s eyes became ice cold.

“Or, so God help me, I’ll Retcon you so far back you won’t even be able to drool into your bib without help. Don’t try my patience, Gwen. I’m not Jack, I won’t put up with your shit any longer.”

“You know that Retcon won’t work on me,” Gwen reminded him smugly. “Jack’s already tried it; and failed.”

“Jack messed up the dosage because he had the hots for you; perhaps you reminded him of some bug-eyed alien squid he had kinky tentacle sex with on another planet,” Ianto returned, getting a bit nasty himself.

He couldn’t help it. Gwen always brought out the worst of him, and the fact that he finally could put her in her place, after having to endure her callous, bossy manner for over a year, was too bloody tempting.

“I won’t make the same mistake, so I suggest that you be quiet and think about your future very, _very_ carefully,” he added warningly.

“This isn’t over yet, Teaboy,” Gwen was already too furious to watch her tongue. Otherwise she might have realised that calling names at her boss when said boss was already royally pissed at her wasn’t the best idea.

“On the contrary,” Ianto replied icily. “I’m done and over with you and your attitude. This is your last warning. Screw up again, and you’ll be out of the game faster than you can have a quick shag with Owen in the morgue.”

“How do you dare!” Gwen hissed, but all she got for her effort to look tough was a cold smile.

“You’ll realise soon enough that I dare a great deal,” Ianto said. “And in your case I won’t even need to take any particular risks. I’ve just been appointed as the new Torchwood Director, which makes me the boss of even Sir Archibald, as bizarre as it sounds, even to me. It would be completely within my rights to execute you – or to Retcon you back to your diapers – for trying to sell us off to UNIT. Be glad that Jack’s shown mercy towards me after the disaster with Lisa, and so I’m inclined to be merciful with you. It’s more than you deserve; but it was more than what _I_ deserved, too, so I’m trying to be fair. Even if you’re _not_ making it easy for me.”

He paused, trying to get his rage under control. Losing it, and at Buckingham Palace of all places, wouldn’t help things.

“You were right in one thing,” he continued after a short pause. “Torchwood Three needs a better organization and more discipline. I’ll see that those things will be established. Headquarters had its rules and regulations for a reason. Not all of those would work for Cardiff; we’re a differently structured team. But I’ll make sure that some basic rules are followed by everyone – _including_ you. Or there will be consequences… and you’re not gonna like those.”

“Are you threatening me?” Gwen asked, her eyes narrowing.

“No,” Ianto replied with a cold smile. “I’m laying down the law. And I intend to enforce the rules, by any means necessary, if I have to.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“Ya sounded like ya’re about t’ establish a one-man dictature in Cardiff,” Sir Archibald said a few hours later… when Gwen had been confirmed to her hotel room, with Ianto having secured the windows and confiscated the key and the two Torchwood leaders were sitting in the bar of the _Hotel Julius Caesar_ , nursing their respective drinks. “Is this truly how ya wannae lead Torchwood?”

Ianto shook his head. “No, of course not. Nor is there any need to become a tyrant; not with the rest of the team anyway.”

“Ya sure ‘bout that?” the Torchwood Two leader asked doubtfully. “I know Toshiko’s one bonny lass an’ a sweetheart at that, but yer doctor doesnae seem like someone who’d be takin’ Jack’s leavin’ in his stride. Ya’ve been phrasin’ yer reports very carefully, but I’m a Scotsman, ya know. I recognise a habitual drinker from description alone.”

Ianto nodded unhappily. “Yeah, I know. Owen and his growing drinking problem is something I’ll have to deal with, sooner rather than later, I’m afraid.”

“Ya wouldae like t’ keep him on the team, though?” Sir Archibald seemed a bit surprised by that, which was understandable. An alcoholic was certainly a high-risk factor in such a small team as Torchwood Three.

“ _Like_ is too strong a word,” Ianto admitted with a grimace. “But he’s competent at what he’s doing – well, when he isn’t completely sloshed, that is – and I need him. He’s the only medic we have.”

“Methinks ya shouldae look out fer a new medic, soon,” Sir Archibald suggested.

Ianto nodded reluctantly. “I know. But he won’t be easily replaced. Medical schools don’t usually train people to deal with aliens, and with Headquarters gone, he’s the closest thing we’ve got to a xenobiologist.”

“Aside from ya,” Sir Archibald commented, but Ianto shook his head.

“No, sir. I might know a great deal of data about aliens, and I know where the rest of such data can be found, but I don’t have the training to do an autopsy or run a DNA analysis on one. Or to treat one, in the rare case they turn out friendly. Owen has years of experience under his belt… and in a manner I can even understand his frustration.”

“Oh?” Sir Archibald blinked over his drink – not the first one on that evening – at Ianto owlishly. “Care t’ enlighten me then, laddie?”

“Until recently, Owen was completely at ease when he was working,” Ianto explained. “He got to screw around with the office bimbo, he got a friend in Tosh, complete work freedom, a substitute father figure in Jack… Plus, being the second most experienced field agent after Jack meant he got to play the action hero, and he could lord it over the teaboy.”

“Why did ya let him?” Sir Archibald frowned.

Ianto shrugged again. “Cos when everything was said and done, he was just an annoying twat, nothing else.”

“I cannae help but notice that ya’re speakin’ in past tense, though,” the Torchwood Two leader said.

“Yes, well, things have changed for him quite a bit,” Ianto replied tiredly. “The first thing to go was the father figure – although losing Diane to the Rift might have been what opened the floodgates to begin with – adding to that the guilt of shooting him. _Then_ the teaboy gets his ‘job’ as the new leader of Torchwood. And _that_ will mean consequences for him as well. He’ll lose his freedom and, as things look for Gwen, he’ll probably lose his part-time shag as well. I won’t be surprised if his drinking gets worse in the near future.”

“An’ that’s goin’ to be a serious problem for ya, too,” Sir Archibald warned. “Sooner or later you wanna have t’ replace him.”

“I know,” Ianto sighed. “I just don’t have a clue where I could find a proper doctor we could train for this kind of work. At the very least we might have a candidate for the scientific part. Detective Swanson suggested one of their SOCO scientists who’s looking for a new job. Got bored with crime scene investigations, apparently.”

“What kind o’ scientist?” Sir Archibald asked.

“Major in biochemistry, minor in genetics, single, in her early thirties,” Ianto counted down the advantages of the candidate on his fingers. “Right up our alley, actually.”

Sir Archibald nodded. “Aye, that sounds promisin’. Jack wouldnae be happy with ya hirin’ people right from the police, though, I think.”

Ianto shrugged, his face becoming an unreadable mask.

“Jack has lost his right to say anything in his matter,” he said. “Had he told us what he was planning; had he left instructions how he wanted things to be done in his absence, we’d have followed his orders… well, most of us would,” he added belatedly, knowing that Gwen would do what _she_ wanted anyway. “But he didn’t. For better or worse, _I am_ the head of Torchwood Three now, and I’ll do things as I see them fit.”

“Jack might’ve had a reason for doin’ things his way,” Sir Archibald reminded him gently.

Ianto nodded. “Yep; but he could also bounce back from the death and go on for days without any sleep. No-one of us can do that. So I’ll have to create a schedule that allows us, mere mortals, at least a couple of hours of sleep every day; and guidelines that allow us to do our work without getting killed, if possible.”

“One’s guidelines for field work could be modified for yer purpose,” Sir Archibald suggested.

He’d suggested the same thing to Jack in the past – repeatedly – only to be rebuffed. Jack _could_ be unreasonable in his hatred towards Headquarters… a sentiment that Sir Archibald didn’t share. Sure, Yvonne could go overboard with her patriotism (something about the upcoming Golden Age of the New British Empire had definitely gone to her head, wherever she might have found hints about it, and she’d done her best to help it along) but in one thing she’d been right. Earth couldn’t afford to depend on the Doctor whenever some malevolent aliens visited the planet…which happened far too frequently for his comfort. 

Ianto nodded in agreement.

“Yes, I know; that’s what I’ve told Gwen a couple of hours ago, isn’t it? Those are reasonable rules and can be easily adapted to our situation. And if some survivors from One are willing to work for me, it will make things a lot easier.”

“Oh, they would, fer certain,” Sir Archibald said encouragingly. “Why shouldnae they want to work for you?”

“I’m an archivist, not a field agent,” Ianto pointed out for the umpteenth time – or so it seemed to him.

Sir Archibald nodded amiably. “Aye; which is why ya’re needed desperately. Ya’re the last one left. Without ya, we wouldnae be able t’ access One’s resources – _or_ their database.”

“Is _that_ why the Queen chose me, of all people?” Ianto asked, realization dawning; the realization that he was in for a lifelong assignment, even if Jack _did_ return.

Which, frankly, didn’t seem very likely.

“That mustae been part of it, aye,” Sir Archibald replied. “Losin’ access to One’s stuff wouldae been foolish; and Her Majesty isnae a fool. Jack’s refused t’ do anythin’ with One’s legacy an’ she let him do things his way, cause she trusted him… an’ she liked him a lot. But now she’s got ya; that’s a different cup o’ tea.”

“You mean she expects me to resurrect One, just on a smaller basis?” Ianto clarified.

Sir Archibald shook his head. “Nay, I don’t think so. But aye, she might be expectin’ ya t’ take things more seriously an’ t’ work along established rules – more so than Jack ever did.”

“Since I don’t have Jack’s abilities, I’d have no other choice anyway,” Ianto sighed. “Thanks for listening to my whining, Sir Archibald. I really needed to get all this off my chest.”

“Don’t mention it, laddie,” Sir Archibald smiled. “Ya needed it. Now, why donnae ya contact yer team back in Cardiff an’ put their minds to ease?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Ianto agreed that _that_ would be an excellent idea and took his leave from Sir Archibald. Riding the asthmatic lift to the fifth floor, he first checked if Gwen was still in her room. Not that she could have left through the window, and the special, Torchwood-issue seal on her door would have kept a Hoix inside, but Gwen was always good for a nasty surprise, and Ianto wasn’t taking any risks where she was considered.

No surprise this time, fortunately; so Ianto returned to his own room, shook off his jacket and made the necessary calls, starting with Detective Swanson.

“You can stand down for the time being,” he told her. “It seems that we might be spared – this time. I’ll contact you tomorrow at the same time, though, just to be sure. After that, I think we can go back to yellow alert.”

“I never imagined you being a Trekkie,” she laughed. “So, things are going well on your end?”

“As well as one can expect,” Ianto sighed. “In any case, if Dr Lloyd is still interested in working for Torchwood, there will definitely be a place for her in the new team.”

“What new team?” Swanson asked in suspicion. “Is your new boss bringing his own people to Cardiff?”

Ianto laughed mirthlessly. “That’s one way to put it; but yeah. I might be bringing a few new team members upon my return. It depends on how the meeting tomorrow will go.”

“What do you mean… Oh!” she’d always been very bright. “I _so_ hate to be right – although it’s probably the best for Cardiff. So, _you are_ the new Torchwood boss, eh?”

“Seems so, yeah,” Ianto admitted glumly.

“My sincerest condolences,” Swanson said honestly. No, she didn’t envy anyone who had to deal with Torchwood’s shit – and with _Cooper_ , to add insult to injury. “If I can help in any way…”

“You can. I’ve officially requested you as our police liaison before I left town. Accept, and you’ll be a most valuable ally and a great help.”

“I’ve already told you I’ll do it, haven’t I?”

“Yes, but this is official now,” Ianto pointed out. “You still willing to do it? It won’t be easy; especially as you wouldn’t be able to tell your superior the truth, most of the time.”

“I’ll manage,” Swanson said wryly. “Fortunately, Detective Inspector Henderson is a great admirer of your Miss Sato, ever since she hindered that mad bloke in killing his family last year. Speaking of him; what should I tell him about the replacement of Captain Harkness? Word ought to reach him eventually; and he phoned Jack from time to time, you know.”

“Tell, him that Jack’s gone on a secret mission of unpredictable length, and the Queen didn’t want to leave Torchwood without an administrator who’d deal with the day-to-day business,” Ianto suggested. “It’s close enough to the truth for anyone to believe.”

“ _How_ close exactly?” Swanson asked.

“Very close,” Ianto replied. “I’m not Jack, and I’ll never be able to do things his way. But I’ll do my best to keep the team together and the work done; even though my methods will be different.”

“Some of us will know to value the difference,” Swanson commented, with the hint of a smile in her voice. “All right, Director Jones. I’ll remain on yellow alert until further notice. But I want the full story once you’re back, understood?”

“You’ll have it,” Ianto promised, smiling just a little himself. “Well, I have a few more calls to make, so till next time, Detective. Take care.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
He hung up and dialled Tosh next, who picked up his call almost immediately. She must have been practically sitting on her phone, out of sheer anxiety. Ianto told her the news in a nutshell, which lessened her worries a bit; even though they both knew how hard he next few months were going to be.

“At least we still have our jobs and didn’t get some UNIT bureaucrat set before our noses,” Tosh commented. “Now, if we could get some proper new team members, we might even be able to _do_ our jobs eventually.”

“I’m working on it,” Ianto said. “Tomorrow, I’m gonna meet some candidates, and Detective Swanson suggested Dr Lloyd from SOCO for life sciences. Speaking of which, how’s Owen doing?”

“He’s at home, sleeping out last night’s flatline-drinking contest,” Tosh confessed unhappily. “I hate to say this, Ianto, but we’ll need a new medic… and _Owen_ needs professional help. Preferable before he drinks himself into an early grave.”

“I’m not replacing him, unless I absolutely _have_ to,” Ianto said. “A temporary substitute might be a good idea, though. Do you have any suggestions?”

“What about Dr Angela Connelly from _St. Helen’s_?” Tosh asked. “She worked with us in small, simple cases before; perhaps she would be interested in doing more?”

“Good idea. Please call her and make an appointment with her for, say, in three days’ time? I ought to be back by then.”

“I hope so,” Tosh paused, then said softy. “Be careful, Ianto.”

“You, too,” he replied. “See you in three days. Hopefully.”


	10. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trevor Howard is the nameless extra seen as Dr. Rajesh Sing’s assistant in “Army of Ghosts”. He appears in “Eye-Witness” first. Sally Jacobs had an appearance in “The Christmas Invasion”. And yes, I brought Mickey back a little earlier, because I needed him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER 10 – REUNIONS**

Visiting the Palace the second time wasn’t a tad less intimidating than doing so for the first time, Ianto found. He’d often been teased for his deep-rooted loyalty for the royal family. Supposedly, a proper Welshman ought to feel differently. But he’d joined Torchwood One at a rather impressionable age, and training at Headquarters included a thorough conditioning to do everything in his power for Queen and Country – and to be grateful for being allowed to do so.

 _Brainwashed by Yvonne’s lackeys_ Jack had called it in very obvious disgust, although he loved and respected Her Majesty personally… despite his seemingly disrespectful custom of referring to her as _Lizzie_. Of course, knowing that he had once bounced the little princess on his knee explained that in hindsight.

Besides, most people believed Jack to be American, which made them forgive him for his apparent lack of manners. Clearly, even snobbery did have its advantages sometimes.

Ianto, on the other hand, had been raised to show respect to those above his own status, and thus his stomach had the size of a shrivelled lemon in the next afternoon when they were once again picked up at their somewhat shabby hotel and delivered to the Palace.

Another one of those impeccably clad, exchangeable employees – Ianto remembered Jack having called them _drones_ – welcomed them at the side entrance and led them through a true maze of corridors to Prince William’s private office. The Prince himself wasn’t present yet, but Sir Archibald was, and with him a gentle-faced, middle-aged woman with shoulder-length brown hair, wearing a neat trouser suit, a pretty blonde in an elegant black-and-white tea dress and a bespectacled man in his early thirties, with a shaved head, wearing an ill-fitting suit and a tie that was tied so awkwardly that Ianto’s fingers began to itch to redo it at once.

Until the young man spotted him, jumped to his feet and hurried to intercept him with a huge, ear-to-ear grin all but splitting his face, that is.

“Jonesy!” he cried in delight. “By the iron arse of every Cyberman, is that really you?”

Ianto laughed and hugged the man briefly. This was certainly not what – or rather _whom_ – he’d expected to find in the Palace.

“Trevor Howard! It’s good to see you again, mate. It’s been too long.”

“ _Way_ too long, if you ask me,” Dr Trevor Howard, once junior researcher in Torchwood London’s cybernetics department, then the assistant of Dr Rajesh Singh, the very first unfortunate victim of the Battle of Canary Wharf, agreed. “It wasn’t _my_ fault, though. I _did_ my best to find you when you stopped coming to the support group, but you did the vanishing act on me. I didn’t even know you ended up working for Three until Archie contacted me, less than a week ago.”

“ _Sir Archibald_ ,” Ianto corrected.

“Hey, he was the one who told me to call him Archie,” Trevor protested.

Ianto nodded. “He does that frequently. It still isn’t proper. He’s the senior Torchwood leader now, and that deserves respect.”

Trevor gave him a fond grin. “You really need to wind down a bit, Jonesy, before you break your spine from all that proper posturing. Besides, Archie tells me that _you_ are the boss now, so you can stop sirring everyone and do a bit of the lording over the unwashed masses yourself.”

“Somehow I can’t imagine Mr Jones displaying pretentious behaviour,” an amused voice said and in walked Prince William, this time wearing his RAF duty uniform, which made Gwen stare at him with her mouth hanging literally open.

The prince crossed the room, shook hands with Ianto and Archie in his usual charming manner and then looked at the Torchwood Two leader expectantly.

“Well, Sir Archibald? Would you mind to make the introductions? I assume you’re the one who knows everybody here.”

“Aye that’s th’ truth o’ it,” Archie agreed. “Now, where shouldae I begin…”

“Ladies first,” the prince suggested, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement.

“Right,” Archie cleared his throat. “Well, in that case it’s an honour t’ present ya Sarah Jane Smith, long-time companion o’ th’ Doctor – two different versions o’ him in fact! – an’ now a freelance journalist an’ a good friend o’ both Commodore Sullivan an’ Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart. Ms Smith, this is Ianto Jones, th’ new Torchwood Director.”

“I’ve heard a great deal about you from Jack,” Ianto said, shaking her hand. “It’s good to finally meet you in person.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Sarah Jane Smith replied warmly. “It’s a relief that the Cardiff Rift remains in the hands where it belongs, instead of the warmongers of the military. Present company excused, of course,” she added with an apologetic glance in Prince William’s direction.

The prince just smiled indulgently. Ianto smiled, too.

“You’re welcome to join us and keep us in line, Ms Smith,” he said.

The resolute journalist shook her head and laughed.

“Sarah Jane, please. And the last thing you’d need is an elderly woman, sticking her long nose in your business and telling you every other moment how to do your jobs, just because she happened to travel with the Doctor. Besides, I’ve got my own work here in London, and that’s enough to fill my day – and more.”

“Forgive me, but why are you here, then?” Ianto asked.

“To meet _you_ ,” she replied simply. “And to offer my help. I’ve got resources as a former companion not even UNIT is aware of. Human resources, mostly, and information, thanks to my network of ex-companions; but also some technology that can prove useful in the time of need. I wanted to tell you that you can count on me… and on the others, too, as far as they still can actually _do_ something. Most of them are quite old by now, I’m afraid. And, of course, I need to speak with you about public relations.”

“About _what_?” Ianto was honestly confused, but she waved him off.

“Later. In private. Let’s Archie do his thing first, shall we?”

“Of course,” Ianto inclined his head politely towards the Torchwood Two leader. “Do forgive me, Sir Archibald. And please go on.”

The man in the kilt rolled his eyes a bit but went on with the introduction nonetheless, continuing with the pretty blonde with the calm observant blue eyes.

“The bonny lass is Miss Sally Jacobs, currently workin’ as a communications technician for th’ UNIT headquarters under th’ Tower o’ London but wantin’ a bit more o’ th’ real action, it seems.”

“Err… not exactly,” Miss Jacobs corrected. “Captain Magambo said I should study, cause I’ve got a good head for maths, but Colonel Mace didn’t want another scientist at Headquarters. He wanted a glorified telephone operator, apparently. And his successor is even worse.”

“And you think transferring to Torchwood would give you the time to study?” Gwen laughed in disbelief. “We’re lucky if we can eat our takeaway pizza without a Rift alert interrupting our lunch break,” she gave Miss Jacobs’s elegant dress and low heels a patronizing look. “Your pretty wardrobe wouldn’t last a day. Hunting down aliens in the sewers is a dirty, smelly, dangerous job; not for pampered little girls who know nothing beyond their comfortable offices.”

“Does being mind-controlled by an alien influence and standing poised to jump off the roof of the Tower of London as a result count?” Miss Jacobs asked calmly. “Because I’ve done _that_ during the Sycorax invasion last Christmas.”

“Oh!” Ianto said with sudden understanding. “Blood type A-positive, aren’t you?”

The pretty blonde nodded and gave him a calm, understated smile.

“Aside from that, I’m damn good at my job, too. I was the technician on duty when the invasion began. I was the one who spotted that the Sycorax signal came from 5000 miles above Earth, not from Mars, which led to the realisation that there was a warship in orbit, long before the military would take notice.”

Ianto nodded. UNIT had watched the space around Earth with advanced scanners, enhanced by alien technology, thanks to an earlier incarnation of the Doctor who had been their scientific advisor for a while. Those were ingenious instruments but needed a great deal of skill and a general understanding of the scientific principles to handle them If Miss Jacobs could do that, she had to have a good head on her shoulders indeed and might be able to handle Mainframe as well.

However, mere scientific knowledge wasn’t enough for someone to survive at Torchwood. Not even for the usual short while.

“Can you use a gun?” he asked.

Miss Jacobs nodded again. “UNIT insists on civilian personnel being trained at the shooting range as well as in unarmed self-defence practices. I don’t have a black belt or anything, but I’m fairly good at aikido and kickboxing.”

“Interesting choices,” Prince William commented. 

Miss Jacobs shrugged. “I thought aikido would come in handy when all I can find to defend myself with was an iron bar… or the broken leg of a table. Kickboxing allows me to use my own body as a weapon when not even those are at my disposal.”

“It all sounds very promising,” Ianto was impressed and made no attempt to hide it. “But you’ll understand, Miss Jacobs, that I’m a bit reluctant to take over _anyone_ from UNIT. Especially one who used to work for Headquarters.”

“Cause the brass have been trying to push into your territory ever since the fall of One?” Trevor Howard asked with a mirthless grin.

“That’s the main reason, yes,” Ianto replied.

“You can relax around Sally, then,” Trevor told him. “She’s OK. I’ll vouch for her… unless you think _me_ untrustworthy, too, just cause I’ve been rotting in a UNIT lab for the last year and a half.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Ianto snorted.

“You’re ready to trust him just ‘cos he was at Torchwood One with you, aren’t you?” Gwen fumed. “Are you out of your bloody mind, Ianto Jones? Those jerks at One unleashed the Daleks _and_ the Cybermen on the world; no wonder Jack didn’t want anything to do with their leftovers.”

“I see you’ve talked to Owen about things,” Ianto said with a bland smile that would cause everyone with the smallest morsel of survival instinct to shut up and back off.

Unfortunately, Gwen was _not_ one of those people.

“Well, yes, I needed to know what was the big deal about the murderous female robot you were hiding in the basement, and Jack wouldn’t explain anything, as usual,” she replied blithely.

Everyone in the office winced at her callous reference to an innocent human being who’d been turned into a monster against her will. Even Prince William, who had done his homework with the help of the Brigadier and Commodore Sullivan, learned the full and ugly truth about the destruction of Torchwood Tower.

“That female robot,” Ianto said in a flat, emotionless voice, “used to be my fiancée. A brilliant, beautiful, warm-hearted, living, breathing person whom I loved and who loved me. You do know what _that_ is, right? After all, you’re the only one among us with a life _outside_ Torchwood, as you frequently remind us – not that you’d value it, or that poor, delusional fool whose only wish is to marry you and carry you on his hands. If you did, you wouldn’t cheat on him by every chance.”

He paused for a moment, but Gwen was too furious to say anything, just stood there, opening and closing her mouth haplessly.

“Lisa and I wanted to marry, too, you see,” Ianto continued. “I even bought the ring. So did Gareth and Adeola, and many of the bright young people working for One.”

“And some of us, like Jeannie or Rajesh, had kids whom they hoped to give a better life, thanks to the paychecks of Torchwood,” Trevor added grimly. “There were over eight hundred people working for One, Miss I-Can-Judge-People-Though-I-Don’t-Know-Shit. Most of them didn’t have anything to do with the ghost shifts. Do you know how many of us survived? Twenty-seven.”

“Twenty-seven of us were still breathing when everything was over; _not_ counting in Lisa,” Ianto corrected. “Six of them chose to be Retconned back before Torchwood Tower had been built. Four of the rest have committed suicide in the meantime because they couldn’t live with the memories. Five have been lying in coma ever since, damaged beyond help, though their families cannot bear to disconnect the life-support machines; and we both know what happened to Lisa, don’t we?” he added with an icy glare in Gwen’s direction. “You were the one to put bullets in what was left of her.”

“She was a monster!” Gwen screeched. “She killed people! She almost killed _me_!”

“And everything just _has_ to be about you, hasn’t it?” Ianto asked tiredly. “Yes, I know that she got overwhelmed by her programming in the end and caused the deaths of Dr Tanizaki and that poor Annie. But my Lisa wasn’t responsible for that. No more than you were responsible for the deaths of those fourteen men killed by the gaseous alien _you’ve_ accidentally released. Or fort he fate of the poor girl who was taken over by the alien and is still sitting in _Providence Park_ in a vegetable state.”

All eyes turned to Gwen in interest and she began to feel very uncomfortable.

“That’s not the same!” she protested.

“No,” Trevor agreed grimly. “You killed a dozen or so people cause you were stupid. Jonesy caused two deaths because he wanted to _save_ somebody – which, by the way, was also fairly stupid,” he added bluntly, and Ianto didn’t even try to defend himself.

“I know that – _now_. But back then I believed that when Yvonne could keep her humanity despite a full conversion…”

“Yeah, but Yvonne could have stopped the Earth's rotation by sheer willpower,” Trevor said. “And besides, she only kept herself or a few minutes before getting killed for good. It’s not the same.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Ianto muttered unhappily; then he retuned to the actual reason they were in the Palace for. “So, since you’re here, can I assume that you’d be willing to work for Torchwood again?”

“It depends,” Trevor grinned. “Is Miss Sato still working for Three?”

Gwen couldn’t believe her ears. This bloke knew Tosh? Tosh had connections to One? Did Jack know that or was she going behind his back, the sneaky little traitor?

“Of course,” Ianto grinned back at his old mate. “We’d be lost without her. With Suzie dead and Jack gone, she’s the only one who can deal with Mainframe. And she’d welcome some help. She’d been run ragged during the last year.”

“Then I’m in,” Trevor said. “God, Jonesy, I thought you’d never ask! Do you have an idea what a dull life I’ve led since the fall of One?”

“What? I thought UNIT took you over!”

“Yeah, but they didn’t _trust_ me with anything important. Apparently, having survived an all-out alien massacre instead of dying with the rest makes you dubious. I’ve been wasting my life away with menial tasks any low-grade lab technician without the slightest experience with alien technology could have performed blindfolded and with one hand tied to their backs.”

“Why didn’t you quit then?” Gwen asked with a shrug.

The former Torchwood researcher rolled his eyes. “You really _are_ a little stupid, aren’t you? I~m not only a survivor of Canary Wharf; I worked with Dr Singh at the end, in the very lab where the Void Ship was kept. I saw how it opened and millions of Daleks were released. I know the full truth behind Canary Wharf. They’d never allow me to go; not with my memories still intact. And by the amount of Retcon I’d have needed to forget everything I saw in the ten years working for One, I’d have ended up an empty husk, most likely.”

“Fortunately, transferring to Torchwood would solve that problem… wouldn’t it?” Prince William asked.

Archie nodded. “Aye, Yer Highness, it will. I wouldae hired the lad meself right away; he’s a bright one. Alas, there’s no need fer a scientist o’ his calibre in Glasgow. He’ll go on swimmingly with Toshiko, though.”

“And I’ll be more than happy to have him on the Cardiff team,” Ianto smiled. 

This time it was an honest, relieved smile. Having one of his old colleagues from One to work with again would be a blessing. He studiously ignored Gwen’s angry scowl. She’d just have to deal with the sudden increase of competence at Three, even if it made her look even more stupid than usual – not a small feat on a good day, he thought, a little nastily.

He was only ever human, after all.

“What about the other survivors of Canary Wharf, though?” Prince William asked. “If I’ve counted correctly, nine of them are still uncounted for.”

“I’ve been in contact with the others; discretely, of course, as UNIT didn’t exactly encourage it,” Trevor replied. “Most of them were in administrative positions or low-grade technicians. They ended up in government offices or UNIT labs… well, with the exception of poor Jeannie McKay, of course.”

“That Canadian scientist?” Archie asked. “Yvonne kept braggin’ about how bright she was an’ how Torchwood wouldae beaten th’ ESA in space exploration, once th’ lass has built up her team an’ started her research properly.”

“Yeah,” Trevor agreed. “She’s absolutely brilliant. Two doctorates – one in theoretical astrophysics and one in mechanical engineering – _and_ a Master’s degree in computer sciences. Had been working for One barely a year before everything went to hell. Those… _things_ put her into a cyber-conversion unit – I’m sure you can relate,” he added, looking at Gwen, whose only answer was a scowl.

“Anyway,” Trevor continued, “the Doctor did his trick before the process could have started, but she’d been in there for a while. And she knew what was going to happen – she had the questionable delight to watch people being transformed before it would be her turn.”

“That couldn’t bode well with her,” Prince William said.

“No,” Trevor sighed. “Though at first we all thought she’d bounced back rather remarkably. She even worked for UNIT for a short while – only God knows how she managed it, but again, she _was_ brilliant – but when that bastard husband of hers left to go back to Canada and took their little daughter with him, she finally lost it.”

“Small wonder,” Ianto murmured. “She loved little Madison so much. Where is she now?”

“In a psychiatric hospital, on suicide watch seven-twenty-four,” Trevor answered grimly. “I know what you’re thinking, Jonesy, or at least I think I do, but it won’t work. She’s too far gone.”

“That remains to be seen,” Ianto said. “But even if she is, I won’t leave her to rot away among strangers. She’s still Torchwood, and therefore my responsibility.”

“Perhaps so, but what do you intend to do?” Trevor asked doubtfully. “She does need professional help.”

“I understand that,” Ianto replied. “I know what that’s like. My mother spent the last years of her life in a mental institute with increasingly worsening depressions. Which is why I know just the right place for Jeannie. A place where I can keep an eye on her and where we can visit her regularly.”

“You wanna move her to _Providence Park_?” Gwen asked incredulously. “Are you out of your bloody mind? Torchwood is Special Ops, fighting aliens and retrieving dangerous alien technology, not a nursing home for crippled ex-agents. We don’t have the _time_ to play Mother Teresa!”

“And that coming from the woman whom Jack hired for her humanity and compassion,” Ianto commented dryly.

The silence following his comment was deafening. Gwen blinked several times in confusion. What was their problem anyway? All she’d done was pointing out the glaringly obvious. It was bad enough that Jack had insisted Torchwood would pay the bills for Carys Morgan’s ongoing therapy at _Providence Park_ ; now they were supposed to mollycoddle the damaged Torchwood One survivors, too? She couldn’t believe that no-one else would protest against such waste of Torchwood resources that were supposed to be used to protect Cardiff from whatever the Rift chose to spit out at any given time.

After what remained eternity, Prince William cleared his throat.

“Well, if you think Dr McKay would be helped best when moved to Cardiff, then by all means, do so, Mr Jones. I’ve studied the files of all Torchwood One survivors, and I must admit that I was impressed by hers. She would be a valuable asset to your team; _if_ she can be healed, that is.”

“Thank you for the support, Your Highness,” Ianto said earnestly. “I know the chances are slim; but I _have_ to give it a try. She deserves to be taken care of. All survivors do. What happened at Canary Wharf wasn’t their fault. Nor was it strictly Yvonne’s, to be honest. She meant no harm. All she wanted was to find a new, clean, dependable energy source to curble on the economics of the country. She couldn’t know what she was dealing with – neither of us could.”

“She should have listened to the Doctor,” Sarah Jane said dryly.

“According to Tosh, she actually did,” Ianto replied. “She had the ghost shift stopped in the last minute. Unfortunately, Mickey Smith had already touched the Void Ship by accident, priming it due to the Void energy that had saturated his cells cos he’d been in that alternate dimension – and from that point on, there was no way back. Adeola and the others, controlled by the cyber-earpieces, opened the rift above the Tower, and that was that.”

“Are you saying that the release of the Daleks was Mickey’s fault? Sarah Jane demanded angrily.

Ianto gave her a bland smile.

“Actually, it was the Doctor’s fault; he was the one who dragged Mickey with him to that other dimension, wasn’t he? If we’re about to put blame, let’s make sure we put it where it truly belongs.”

“You’re very hostile towards the Doctor,” Sarah Jane remarked sadly.

“I’ve got my reasons,” Ianto replied. “But how comes that you know about Mickey and his trip into an alternate dimension, Ms Smith? It’s not exactly common knowledge; were Tosh not present at Canary Wharf, not even I might know about it.”

“Mickey told me,” she said simply. “He’s back; has been for a couple of months, actually. We met at the garage where I take my car for repairs, and he recognised me at once. We first met when I was investigating the Krillitane infiltration of Deffry Vale high school, a year and a half ago.”

“And he works in a car garage?” Trevor asked, raising a surprised eyebrow. “After having assisted Dr Singh, no matter for how short a time?”

Sarah Jane shrugged. “Well, he _is_ a car mechanic; and he has to eat somehow and pay the bills.”

“Interesting,” Ianto said languidly. “He must be bored out of his head, after having fought Daleks, the Slitheen _and_ the Cybermen, and that in two different dimensions. Perhaps he’ll be interested in a more… exciting job. One more fitting for an ex-companion.”

“Ianto, you can’t do this!” Gwen hissed. “You can’t fill the Hub with strangers! That’s not what Jack would want!”

“Oh, and all of a sudden you’re concerned what _Jack_ would want?” Ianto returned, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Why start now? You never cared before. But actually, I think Jack would welcome Mickey quite happily. He doesn’t really speak about his adventures with the Doctor, but it’s clear that he valued those times greatly – having another ex-companion to share memories with would be a delight for him, I think. Especially if it’s Mickey.”

“What? Jack’s met this… this Mickey character?”

“Yep, during the Cardiff earthquake – not the one _we_ caused, the previous one, after which Mayor Blaine vanished without a trace. Actually, I think it was a younger version of Jack who met him, back when he was still travelling with the Doctor… and still mortal. But he also learned about Mickey’s later exploits and was impressed. Well… as impressed as he could be with anyone when no sex was involved,” Ianto added with a mirthless grin; then he turned to Sarah Jane. “Do you think you could arrange a meeting? I’d like to offer him a job as a field agent with Torchwood Three... if His Highness is in agreement, that is.”

Prince William waved off his concern. 

“I won’t interfere with whom you intend to hire for your team, Mr Jones. It’s _your_ team now. I just wanted to be here today because I was curious,” he, too, looked at Sarah Jane. “Please, do arrange the meeting, Ms Smith. By all due respect for Her Majesty Queen Victoria, I personally believe that an ex-companion would make a good field agent for Torchwood. Especially if running is involved,” he added, grinning.


	11. The Batcave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know how unlikely such a visit would be in real life. But this is science fiction. *g*

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER 11 – THE BATCAVE**

When the second in the line of Britain's throne made a request, people usually did their level best to comply. So Sarah Jane made a phone call, and thirty minutes later Mickey Smith came up to the Palace to meet them. (The employees of the Palace reportedly needed a long time to recover from the shock.)

He and Trevor greeted each other somewhat awkwardly – the fact that he had infiltrated Torchwood London under a false name still hung between them in the air – but he cheered up immediately when he learned the Ianto and Gwen were from Jack's team. He also didn't seem to have a problem with the idea of leaving London for Cardiff.

Ianto found that he liked him. Mickey wasn't particularly well-educated, true; but he was tough, street-wise and loyal, and had ample first-hand experience with alien technology and weapons. Plus, he had fought a guerrilla war against Cybermen… and won, which alone endeared him to Ianto. That he had his personal grudges against the Doctor was only a bonus.

After they had cleared some of the details, they all agreed that Trevor, Sally and Mickey would quit their jobs or get transformed by higher orders, pack their household and move to Cardiff within the week. For the first time since Jack's unexpected departure, Ianto allowed himself the tentative hope that they might actually manage to save Torchwood Three, after all.

"I can get you and all your stuff over to Cardiff in one go," Mickey offered the other two. "When I came back, I bought a monster truck – don't ask me why. Temporary madness, probably; I always wanted one, as a small boy it was already my dream, and I brought some cash from Pete's Word back with me. Not much, but enough to buy it. I guess I just wanted to be able to move on, whenever I wanted."

"You actually _live_ in that thing?" Sarah Jane shook her head in mild shock.

Mickey grinned. "Most of the time, yeah. I just go back to my bed-sit to wash my things and to bathe. I could move tonight if I had to. But I'll wait for Sally and Speckles here."

Trevor gave him an unfriendly glare, which didn't seem to bother Mickey the slightest. After that, the three Torchwood members _in spe_ took their leave to start organising things. Sarah Jane went with them.

"I thought you wanted to talk to me in private, Ms Smith," Ianto said. "Something about public relations, I believe?"

"Oh, I will, don't worry,' she replied, "Which is why I'm going to Cardiff with you… well, with Mickey and the others, that is. There's somebody in Cardiff I need to meet anyway, so I can kill two birds with the same stone."

"I think I'll join you, too," Prince William said, to everyone's shocked surprise. "Her Majesty told me that I needed to make myself familiar with the state of things in Cardiff, and I find that nothing beats personal experience. Besides, I got a couple of days free, and a change of scenery will do me good."

"Have you considered th' implications o' such a trip, Yer Highness?" Archie, who'd been remarkably quiet during the last part of the meeting, asked seriously. The Prince nodded.

"Yes, Sir Archibald, I have; and I know the risks. The Queen and I discussed this and came to the conclusion that I need to go to Cardiff, preferably incognito, and that this is the best time to do so," he gave the Torchwood agents, both current and future ones, a wry smile. "After all, I'll be travelling with people who faced down murderous aliens and lived to tell the tale. I doubt that a dozen bodyguards would keep me safer."

"An' ya're plannin' t' get on th' train with these two, like everyone else? Archie clarified.

The prince shrugged. "Why not?"

"'Cause people will recognise ya, that's why," Archie said.

"No, they won't," Ianto interfered calmly.

Archie all but exploded. "What do ya mean they won't? O' course they will, unless ya've got a chameleon circuit handy…" he trailed off, staring at Ianto in disbelief. "Nay… ya cannot… 'cept ya do, right?"

"Quite," Ianto pulled a small box out of one of his inner pockets and took out something that, for all intents and purposes, looked like a finely made tiepin. "If His Highness allows…"

"By all means," Prince William replied, looking down along his nose with interest in an effort to watch Ianto fasten the golden pin to his breast pocket, as his duty uniform didn't include any ties. "How will this help me conceal my identity?"

Ianto glanced around and spotted a large mirror in one of the niches. See for yourself, Your Highness!"

His curiosity piqued, the prince hurried over to the mirror – and his jaw hit the floor seeing the image looking back at him. It still had a vague resemblance to him – or rather what he might look like in twenty years, assuming he would lose much of his hair and develop a definite paunch. He also seemed to wear faded jeans and a baggy jumper now. An oatmeal-coloured one.

"Well, this is… interesting," he said, after recovering from his first shock. "How did you come up with the idea?"

"It's basic programming that comes with the circuit by default," Ianto explained. "Age the wearer twenty years, add forty to fifty pounds of weight and shabby clothing. I sometimes use these settings myself; since people tend to remember my suits better than me, it always works like a charm."

"It's highly unlikely that anyone would recognise me," the prince agreed. "The clothing is still a disgrace, though."

"That can easily be helped," Ianto offered. "I'll adjust the filter so that it will only change your looks."

The prince nodded. "That would be more practical, I think," he removed the circuit and handed it back to Ianto who changed the settings with what looked like a hairpin but was, in fact, a fine and very sophisticated screwdriver.

"Here you go, Your Highness. That should do the trick."

Prince William put the not-quite-tie-pin back on and indeed, this time only his looks were changed.

"Better," he judged "Although I make a rather disgraceful airman this way. You know, this all won't work if you keep calling me 'Your Highness', though, don't you?"

Ianto tilted his head to the side, bird-like.

"Perhaps," he allowed. "Do you have any alternate suggestions, Your… I mean, sir?"

"As long as you don't call me Wills, I'm fine," the prince told him, pulling a face. "I hate that stupid nickname."

"Th' press seems to be rather fond of it, though," Archie said.

Prince William's face darkened. "Yeah; that's why I hate it so much. They made it up and use it as they please, without asking what _I think_ about it. As if I were their possession or whatever."

"The problem is, you _are_ , to a certain degree," Ianto pointed out apologetically. "Your position means that in a way you belong to us all; to the people."

"I don't have a problem with the _people_ ," the prince said with a bitter undertone. "I just have a problem with the _press_."

"Which is understandable, all things considered," Archie said gently. "But not all o' them are hyenas, ya know."

"In that case Wills is out of question; not that I could ever call you that," Ianto switched topics hurriedly, to spare the young prince's feelings. He knew what it was like to lose one's mother at a fairly young age. "What else is there; I mean strictly for the sake of secrecy, of course."

The prince shrugged. "Well, my parents used to call me Wombat when I was a toddler," he told them with a grin, but Ianto shook his head.

"I'm not sure I could become comfortable with that, either," he admitted. "What about Lieutenant Wales? If I remember correctly, that's the name you used in the Army, isn't it? That would be both casual and suitably respectful."

"You're very much hung up on titles, aren't you?" the prince smiled.

"Yes," Ianto answered bluntly. "I was raised with manners; and Torchwood London trained its employees to show their betters proper respect."

"Does my birth automatically make me better than you?" Prince William asked seriously. "Does it make me smarter, braver, more knowledgeable? I don't think so. I read your file, Mr Jones. You're younger than me and have already gone through things that would make battle-hardened generals weep. I'd be honoured if you could unwind enough around me to call me Billy, as my fellow airmen did."

Ianto considered this for a moment, while the other two were staring at them in stunned disbelief. Under different circumstances Gwen's blowfish imitation would have been particularly entertaining.

"I think you'll have to give me some time for that, Lieutenant," he finally said. "I'm not Jack; I don't think I could do it just now."

The prince nodded. "Fair enough. Now, how am I supposed to leave the Palace in the morning unnoticed? Even in this unflattering disguise, the security cameras ought to pick me up coming out of my room, and _that_ could lead to all sorts of uncomfortable questions."

"Not if you wear the tie-pin," Ianto said. "It has a perception filter; people won't notice you, unless they are consciously looking for you."

"Which is what they _will_ do," the prince answered logically. "That's their job."

"Not if you leave outside your schedule; say, half an hour earlier than you usually do," Ianto said. "We'll be waiting for you in a cab, a few streets further. I'll text you the exact location in the last moment, just in case."

Archie frowned. "Are ya sure that would be wise, lad?"

Ianto nodded. "Yep. Torchwood-issue phones can't be tracked, not even by the Secret Service. The advantage of alien tech we use on them."

"It's still risky," Archie commented in concern.

The prince grinned like a shark. "That's what makes it fun. And besides, do you really think that anyone would recognise me like this?"

Archie had to admit that it was highly unlikely, and so the Torchwood people left the Palace to prepare themselves for the journey back to their respective outposts.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Despite everyone's worries, the meeting and the subsequent train ride to Cardiff on the next day went without problems. They reached their destination in the late morning and were picked up by Andy Davidson at Cardiff Station. To both Ianto and Gwen's surprise, he was driving Ianto's car.

"Toshiko gave me the keys," he explained apologetically. "She thought it better than let me drive the Torchwood SUV."

"She was right," Ianto looked a the disguised prince, who was wearing his dress uniform this time, with the matching red beret. "Lieutenant, take the passenger seat; you're our guest, after all. Gwen and I will ride in the back."

That obviously didn't bode well for Gwen, if her scowl was any indication – although it wasn't clear whether she disliked not getting the passenger seat or not getting to sit with the prince in the back – but miraculously, she didn't protest. Perhaps she wanted to make a better impression than in the previous two days. Or she didn't want to get into a verbal fight with Andy present when there was a chance to lost the argument.

Whatever the case might be, she climbed into the back seat without a word and studiously ignored Ianto for the duration of the drive. Which was fine with Ianto, honestly. He was still trying to absorb the fact that he was now the Torchwood Director. It was too weird to swallow it just like that.

A short time later Andy pulled up the car in front of the Millennium Centre.

"Toshiko told me to let you out here," he said. "I'll take your car back to the parking area and hung up the keys in the tourist office."

"Thank you, Andy," Ianto got out of the car, waited until the others followed suit and Andy was out of sight; then he turned to the prince. "We'll take the direct route; I hope as a pilot you have no problem with great heights."

"Nothing that I'd have noticed so far," Prince William looked around with interest. "You've got an entrance to your base directly from the Plass? I can't see anything even remotely like that."

Ianto smiled. "That's why we call it _the invisible lift_. Stand on this particular slab of the pavement, please, and feel free to hold onto us. It's a quick and efficient ride, but not necessarily pleasant for everyone."

He took an earpiece out of his pocket and inserted it into his right ear. "Tosh, we're here. Unlock the lift for us, please."

"Got it; and welcome back," a tiny female voice answered, and in the next moment the slab of stone they ware standing on bean to sink, smoothly and slowly, under their feet. The prince instinctively grabbed Ianto's arm, his eyes comically wide, even in his disguise.

"What the hell is this?"

"As I said, we call it the invisible lift," Ianto replied calmly. "Back in 2006, the Doctor parked his TARDIS on this very spot to refuel her with Rift energy. The dimensionally transcendental chameleon circuit of the TARDIS was leaking, welding its perception properties to the Rift itself, and since then anyone standing on this particular slab remains invisible and inaudible for the onlookers. Jack put the fact to good use by creating an emergency entrance to the Hub."

"To the _what_?"

"Our base. But we use it sparsely, just in case."

"Is there another entrance?" the prince asked, getting his balance back.

"The scenic tour through our cover shop, the tourist information office Andy mentioned," Ianto replied with a somewhat embarrassed shrug. "That's where I pretended to work a few hours each day until now. Did the more harmless filing from there with the help of Mainframe."

"Mainframe?" the prince repeated with a frown.

"Our central computer," Ianto explained. "A semi-organic one, so she counts as a life form… more or less. I'll introduce you to her. It might come in handy, should you need to get into the base in our absence. One can never know."

"You refer your central processing unit as she?" the prince was mildly amused.

Gwen rolled her eyes. "They all do. Silly, isn't it? It's just a piece of tech."

"Which is why she locks you out randomly," Ianto commented dryly. "She is a sentient, self-aware piece of tech; a crystal-based life form of some sort that fell through the Rift somehow before Torchwood was even formed and took up residence under what was a planned but never actually finished underground railway station. When Torchwood Three discovered her, in the middle of the 20th century, she had practically filled the room and attached herself to whatever technology was available. It was decided to move the crystals to Torchwood London, where they became part of the computer network and were, sadly, destroyed in the Battle of Canary Wharf – they were no match for the Dalek disintegrator rays. Fortunately, the head scientist of the Cardiff team at that time managed to save a few of the crystals and incorporated them with the rudimentary computers of the base, and so Mainframe was born."

"Great speech, Professor Jones," Gwen muttered. "And why is it that you know all these things? You were just the teaboy."

"I was the archivist and did all the filing," Ianto corrected. "Besides I'm not the only one to know it. Tosh knows about it, Suzie knew about it; and so did Jack, of course, since he was already here when these things happened."

"And he told you instead of _me_?" Gwen snorted. "Oh, please!"

"No, he didn't," Ianto gritted his teeth. "He didn't have to. It's all in the history files for everyone with a high enough clearance to read."

"And _you_ had the clearance?" Gwen taunted. "You were just Jack's manservant and part time… entertainment," she decided for the euphemism in the last minute."

"I was his PA," Ianto corrected. "And back at Headquarters I was the archivist specialized for information about alien life forms. Mainframe _was_ registered as an alien life form… and so was Jack, for that matter."

Gwen nearly swooned off the slowly sinking stone slab with shock hearing that.

"You're kidding, right? How _could_ they! Those monsters! Jack is human, just like everyone else!"

Ianto shook his head. "How many humans do you know who can bounce back from death as if you've pushed a Reset button?"

"Shut up, Ianto!" Gwen hissed, glancing at the prince warily.

Ianto laughed. "Gwen, Jack bounced his _grandmother_ on his knees when she was a little girl! Don't you think the royal family might have noticed his tendency to go on without aging? Besides, Torchwood has extensive files about Jack, back to the late 1980s; it's not such a huge secret as you might think. He just didn't like to speak about it."

"Why not?" the prince asked. "Because it was a tactical advantage he didn't want to reveal?"

"No," Ianto said quietly. "Cos it reminded him of his losses, I believe."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
In the meantime the lift hand sunk enough with them for the ceiling to close above their head, and the prince looked around himself in awe, fighting the bout of vertigo as he was looking down from his still dizzyingly high vantage point into the huge underground base of Torchwood. Yes, he _was_ a pilot, used to great heights, but as a rule he had the safe metal body of a plane or a helicopter surrounding him. Standing on a slab of stone at such height – on a slowly _moving_ slab of stone at that – was a different matter entirely.

"Everything all right, Lieutenant?" Ianto asked, and Prince William nodded, albeit a bit shakily.

"Cool, yeah. Needs a bit of getting used to, though."

"Everyone is a bit shocked first," Ianto agreed. "But this is the fastest, most secret way in; and besides, the view is worth a bit of discomfort, don't you think?"

The prince nodded. "It's positively mind-blowing. _Batcave_ doesn't even begin to describe it. By the way, is that an extension of the water tower on the Plass?"

"Yep. The water runs down to a filter where it's cleaned, and then returns to our own plumbing system to the surface. It can also serve as a signal booster when the phone lines are cut off for some reason," Ianto smiled at the blank look on their guest's face. "I'll give you the file number if you're interested."

"Sure," the prince, back on solid ground at last, tilted his head back to look up to the ceiling now so far above them. It was hard to believe that only moments earlier he'd been up there.

He took in the sheer size of the place with unabashed awe; how the rough stone of the ceiling gave way to smoother brickwork, the opening mechanism so cleverly hidden that he couldn't even find the lines. The metal of the handrails. Grated bridges and flooring gleamed in the artificial light; it surprised him that in spite of the openly flowing water along the massive tower and in the culverts, the air in the cavernous room was not damp or murky. Some alien technology had to be at work here, keeping the numerous computers and other sensitive machinery dry and safe.

Some working areas were separated by glass walls; others stood open. But the whole thing was one enormous, interconnected maze of Victorian and futuristic elements that seemed to work well together, despite any expectations to the contrary. It was like the dream of every adventurous little boy became reality.

"Do you think I can turn off this tie-pin now?" he asked. "I don't need to stay disguised inside the base, do I?"

"No, of course not," Ianto smiled. "Just think _off_ ; it reacts to human brainwaves."

The prince gave it a try. He couldn't feel a thing, to his mild disappointment, and there were no mirrors, but as he looked down at his hands, they looked familiar enough.

"Am I back?" he asked, a little uncertainly.

Ianto gave him a tired smile. "Don't worry, Lieutenant. You're one hundred per cent your charming self again. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm seriously caffeine deprived and must do something to redeem that fact. I'll introduce you to Dr Sato, our resident computer genius; she'll give you the grand tour while I make some decent coffee."

"I can do that," Gwen volunteered eagerly. "Give the tour, you know."

"Oh, and you can also explain His Highness the importance and use of the tech all along the way?" Ianto asked dryly; it was a rhetoric question, and they both knew it. "No? Thought so. Why don't you try to catch up with your huge backlog of paperwork then and allow Tosh to do her job?"

Ignoring Gwen's angry scowl, Ianto steered the prince to the main Hub area to introduce him to the visibly nervous Tosh.

"Your Highness, please meet our head scientist, Doctor Toshiko Sato. Tosh, meet His Royal Highness, Prince William."

"I thought we agreed that you'll simply address me as Lieutenant," the prince said, shaking Tosh's nerveless hand. "You may breathe in my presence, Doctor Sato," he added, flashing at her his best charming smile. "I don't bite."

"It's the red beret, sir," Ianto said in a low voice. "UNIT has a similar one as part of their uniform."

"That can be easily helped," the prince took off the offending piece of uniform, folded it and tucked it into his trouser pocket. "Better?"

Tosh just nodded mutely, risking a tremulous smile.

"I promised the lieutenant the grand tour of the base," Ianto said. "Do you think you can show him around while I make coffee?"

Tosh nodded again.

"Excellent. Has Owen come in yet?"

Tosh shook her head, still not quite in control of her voice. Ianto sighed.

"Well, I'll deal with him when he shows up. _If_ he shows up at all. Let's hope we won't have a Rift alert while he's sleeping out his stupor. Go, have that tour with the lieutenant. We'll discuss everything else later."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
In the following forty minutes Prince William was given a quick but thorough tour of the Torchwood Three base, and he was even more impressed than upon his arrival. As part of a planned yet never realised underground railway line – other parts of which had later become part of the sewer system, according to Dr Sato – the base was a labyrinth of seemingly endless tunnels and corridors, lit by bright fluorescent lights, that branched out in infinite directions.

The air down there was dry and frigid. It made his lings burn, and he buttoned up his jacket as they went.

"Don't you have any heating down here?" he asked.

Dr Sato shook her head. "No, it wouldn't be economical. The cells can be heated individually if needs must be, but we rarely have to. It's mostly just Weevils we have there, and since they live in the sewers anyway, they've long adapted to the conditions," she shrugged noncommittally, and then waved at the new branch of tunnels on her left. "Down there are the Archives, but at the moment only two people have the clearance to enter them."

"Who's that?" the prince asked curiously.

Dr Sato smiled. "Ianto and me. He's the archivist and I'm the only one with the necessary knowledge to handle alien tech. Jack had full clearance, too, of course, as he was our boss… theoretically, at least. But Ianto banned him for making a mess of his filing system and he knew better than coming down after that."

The prince felt his amusement spike. "Why? What would have been the consequences?"

"Decaf for a month," Dr Sato replied. "And believe me, nobody who's ever tasted Ianto's coffee would be stupid enough to risk that."

They both laughed. In spite of being a tea drinker by family tradition, as a pilot the prince had learned to value a life-saving cup of coffee.

"But what if somebody else needs something from the Archives?" he then asked.

"Most of the actual information is already digitalised and the database can be accessed through our workplace terminals," Dr Sato explained. "Should any other team member need an actual artefact, they just tell Ianto and he finds it for them. Not only is it much faster that way, but we're also strongly discouraged to poke around the artefacts. Well, not me, obviously, but even I have to file a report when I remove one of them to study it. Even the generally harmless ones can get us into trouble; and we can't always know just how harmless they really are. We're dealing here with technology way beyond our understanding, most of the time. And with Jack gone, it will only get worse. He recognised a lot of stuff simply because who and what he is," she gave the prince a searching look. "Are you aware of his true identity?"

"That he's from the far future and used to travel with the Doctor?" the prince clarified. "Yeah, I know that. And that he can't die and has been with Torchwood Cardiff since the late 19th century."

"He can die," Dr Sato corrected. "He does die every time, and it's every bit as painful for him than for the rest of us. He just doesn't stay dead. What's more, coming back hurts him just as much as the dying part."

"Yeah, but he does come back every time, does he?" the prince said. "So the results are the same, if not the process."

"True," Dr Sato said. "But he also used to be a Time Agent, back in the far future, so he moved around a lot, both in time and space. He saw a lot. We're gonna miss his vast experience."

"What is a Time Agent?" the prince asked.

"I'm not entirely sure," Dr Sato admitted. "As far as I could figure, out, there was – or rather will be, in another three thousand years or so – an organisation that hunts down time travellers who contaminate the timeline, in order to prevent any changes in history. Some kind of temporal Secret Service of the future, only on a galactic scale. Of course, that was before Jack would meet the Doctor. At a time when he was still mortal."

The prince nodded thoughtfully, wondering whether his grandmother had been fully ware of those ramifications when she'd appointed young Ianto Jones to take over for a two-hundred-year-old immortal (give or take a couple of decades) who'd travelled through space and time ad come from the far future.

"It's just occurred to me," he said slowly, "that this is the first time ever that Torchwood Three has to go without Captain Harkness. Save for the very first years, the Cardiff branch could always count on his knowledge and on his… special abilities. You won' have an easy time without him."

"Without him, with Owen being stone drunk most of the time and Gwen being a general menace," Dr Sato sighed. "I hope the new people Ianto is about to hire will fit in quickly. Or else we'll have a serious problem. Cardiff will have a serious problem. Right now, we would be barely able to deal with one hostile alien or two. Not to mention an alien invasion."

"Do you expect an alien invasion any time soon?" Prince William asked jokingly, trying to dissolve a bit of the tension.

Dr. Sato looked back to him with grim, haunted eyes.

"If I've learned anything during my years with Torchwood, it's to always expect the worst," she answered. "That way, the only surprises can be pleasant ones; not that we'd have had many of those since I've been here. This is a dirty job, but someone has to do it; and we all ended up here because we had no other choice. Well, save for Gwen – which is why she can't really fit in, no matter how much she wants to."


	12. Rift Alarm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The aliens featuring in this chapter are canon ones – book canon, that is, from the novel "Another Life". I used them because they fit the timeline and were interesting.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER 12 – RIFT ALARM**

That was, of course, depressingly true. True enough for the prince to become doubts if it hadn’t been better to let UNIT move in and take over the watching of the Rift, after all. But his royal grandmother had made her decision – most likely out of her decades-long friendship with Captain Harkness – and it was moot point to second-guess her now.

So he followed Torchwood’s painfully shy head scientist – its _only_ scientist at the moment, until the others would arrive from London, he corrected himself – back to the main Hub area, where he was introduced to the culinary miracle that was Ianto Jones’s perfect cup of coffee.

“How did you know how I take my coffee?” he asked in surprise.

“He always does,” Dr Sato told him. “It’s a gift.”

“Instinct,” Ianto corrected. “Plus, I used to know quite a few RAF pilots when I worked as a barista to put myself through the first year of university – before Torchwood London would hire me. They do tend to have similar tastes; and I believe that you, Lieutenant, did your level best to blend in.”

“Are you a secret shrink or what?” the prince asked with an unhappy frown.

“No,” Ianto smiled, though the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But blending in is something I do very well.”

“In those fancy suits of you?” Gwen snorted. “Yeah, well…”

Ianto ignored the venom in her voice.

“Torchwood London didn’t encourage casual Fridays,” he said simply. “And if memory serves me well, which usually does, you managed to see through me for almost a year, despite my fancy suits.”

Before Gwen could have come up with an answer, the alarm klaxons suddenly started blearing.

“Shit,” Ianto muttered, looking at the computer monitoring the Rift seven/twenty-four. “That spike looks _big_!”

“Should I try calling Owen?” Tosh asked, shouldering her field kit already.

Ianto shook his head. “No; he’d be a liability in his current state. The three of us will have to handle it, whatever it is.”

“You mean the _four_ of us, don’t you?” the prince said.

“Out of question!” Ianto replied sharply. “A Rift spike of this size means something really big might have come through. Either a large alien – or an entire group of them – or some hefty piece of technology. In either case, it could be dangerous.”

“So was flying out injured soldiers from a war zone and it didn’t make me back off,” Prince William retuned coolly, jogging after them to the garage.

“Yes, but you were _trained_ to fly out people from a war zone,” Ianto pointed out. “Unless you’re also trained to fight aliens or deal with unpredictable alien technology, this is a different situation.”

“I know how to drive a car and how to fire a gun,” the prince said. “I’ll hold back and follow your lead, but I’m going with you. It’s not up to discussion.”

Ianto rolled his eyes. “Save me from self-proclaimed superheroes!” he muttered, but he knew he couldn’t hinder the prince in coming with them. Unless he knocked him out cold, which wouldn’t have been good for the continuing existence of Torchwood.

“Don’t forget to activate your tiepin,” was all he said, accepting the inevitable; then he looked at Tosh. “Do you have a location?”

“Yep,” Tosh gave him the coordinates. “It’s one of those rather disgusting alleys, just on the border of Splott.”

“What is it with aliens and Splott?” Ianto made a grimace. “All right then. I’ll bring the SUV around. The rest of you take the lift and meet me on the Plass.”

“You do know that the Plass is still a pedestrian area, don’t you?” Gwen asked haughtily.

“And _you_ do know you aren’t a beat cop anymore, don’t you?” Ianto returned, without missing a beat. “Unless you want to go back to walking the beat; _that_ can be arranged.”

That shut Gwen up, at least for the time being, and the two women and the prince used the invisible lift to get up to Roald Dahl Plass again. A few moments later a black SUV with the name TORCHWOOD on its side and with flashing blue lights pulled up next to the gravel that lined the Plass.

“Get in,” Ianto said from the driver’s seat. “Lieutenant, activate that pin. We must go.”

“I thought I was supposed to drive,” Prince William protested, climbing into the passenger seat nonetheless.

“Next time perhaps,” Ianto replied. “Right now we need somebody who actually knows the layout of Cardiff.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Ianto Jones was clearly one of those people with extensive knowledge about the streets of Cardiff because he got them to their destination in record time and without any violation of the traffic rules. As he pulled the SUV to a tidy stop by the kerb, the prince could feel his own heartbeat quickening. There was a steady throbbing in his ears and a feeling of tightness across his chest - a feeling familiar from previous dangerous situations, a strange mix of anxiety and excitement. 

He almost stumbled when he got out of the car; so eager was he to finally meet his first real, down-to-Earth alien. The Weevils in the cells didn’t count; they were a known quality. But something fresh through the Rift – who could say to have seen something like that?

Ianto opened the boot of the SUV, handing out weapons to everyone.

“We don’t know what we’re dealing with, so be careful,” he instructed the women. “If it’s an alien and it’s hostile, we’ll try the stun guns first. If those don’t work, or not quickly enough, shoot to kill.“

“That’s not what Jack would do!” Gwen protested.

“Well, Jack could bounce back when eviscerated by some murderous creature,” Ianto shot back. “ _We_ don’t have the luxury, so try not to get any of us killed. Including yourself.”

Whatever Gwen intended to reply – and, by her mulish expression, it wasn’t going to be friendly – Tosh cut her off, consulting her laptop, the screen of which showed a detailed map of the area.

“Be careful, people,” she warned. “According to the lifesign detector we’re about to meet an old _friend_ of ours,” the emphasis said it all, “complete with quite a bit of technology.”

“What kind of technology?” Ianto asked.

“Bruydac,” Tosh replied grimly, and Ianto and Gwen groaned in unison, clearly familiar with the species.

“Not _those_ again!” Gwen complained.

“Let’s hope they haven’t managed to get their claws into any of the locals, or we’ll have a real problem,” Ianto said; then he looked at the prince. “Lieutenant, you absolutely mustn’t allow those guys to get within reach of you – and remember, their arms are approximately two metres long, so it’s quite the reach. Forget the stun gun; when one approaches, shoot to kill first and don’ bother to ask any questions later.”

“What kind of creatures are they?” Prince William asked.

“Over seven feet tall, bipedal humanoids, hailing from the eponymous planet Bruydac,” Ianto explained pedantically; once an archivist always an archivist. “You’ll recognise them; they’re hard to be mistaken for your average bloke. Under no circumstances may _any_ of us be captured – you know what _that_ would mean.”

The women nodded, their faces grim.

“Well, _I don’t_ ,” the prince said.

“I’ll tell you later,” Ianto promised. “Just shoot them and let us deal with the rest. Let’s go, people, our time’s running out. You two go right, we’ll head down the alley to the left, catch them in the middle and shoot them before they’d know what hit them.”

The women nodded again and hurried off to the right, while Ianto swept off into the alleyway, cruising around puddles and spilled rubbish gracefully like a ballet-dancer. The prince tried to follow suit but after only three steps or so his dress shoes were already crusted with rotting food rests and other, probably even less sanitary remains. 

He sent mental thanks to the people he’d worked with during his gap year; before that he’d have probably thrown up from the stench alone by now.

The alley itself seemed to be some sort of garbage collecting place: large green wheelie bins lined it, with rotten food and all kinds of other waste spilling over the top of them. It was clearly a favoured resource of the homeless, based on the bodies wrapped in tattered clothes lying on haphazard beddings made of rags and pieces of cardboard between the garbage bins.

“Stay back,” Ianto ordered the prince. “We must check these bodies first. If you see anyone but Tosh or Gwen approach us, shoot them; even if they look human. Trust me; they won’t be. Not anymore.”

Prince William nodded tersely. The thought of arguing with the young Torchwood director didn’t even occur to him. This was just like the Arm: _Ianto_ was in charge, _he_ knew the enemy and what had o be done, therefore he was to be obeyed.

To his mild shock, Ianto first checked the back of the head of each homeless person; then he pulled up their jackets and shirts to take a look at their spine. Whatever he was looking for, he clearly didn’t find it – until the last one: an old man who was missing part of the back of his neck. It seemed as if somebody would have chewed out a chunk of it.

“Oh, hell,” Ianto murmured in a resigned tone, apparently having expected to find something like that. Then he touched his earpiece. “Tosh, Gwen, be careful. We’ve just found the first victim. And keep the tazers at hand, in case you might find any of those starfish things.”

“Starfish?” the prince repeated in surprise.

“ _Alien parasites_ ,” Ianto explained. “The hosts cough them up when cornered. They’re impervious to bullets but can be electrocuted rather easily,” he handed the prince a tazer that had apparently been stuck into the waistband of his elegant suit trousers. “Use the highest setting and keep firing as long as the thing moves.”

“You surprise me, Mr Jones,” the prince accepted the tazer and checked the settings. “Are you always running around with an arsenal of weapons under these fancy suits?”

Ianto shrugged. “On the field, yes. There are very few of us, and we have to be ready for literally everything. Now, watch your surroundings carefully; we need to find the vessel the Bruydac came through the Rift with.”

‘What exactly are we looking for?” the prince asked.

“Something large and cylindrical,” Ianto replied. “Last time a Bruydac warship tried to force its way through the Rift, it was about the size of our water tower; only three times as wide.”

“That’s big,” the prince agreed, and Ianto nodded.

“Yeah; it came right through the Bay and messed up the weather, big time. Had it managed to press through fully, it would have sent a wave through the entire Bristol channel akin to a tsunami.”

“But we haven’t noticed any adverse weather conditions so far,” the prince remarked.

“Luckily, no,” Ianto agreed. “Which hopefully means that whatever the thing is, it’s a lot smaller this time. Small enough to come through the Rift in one pace, in fact.”

“And you know that… how exactly?” the prince asked doubtfully.

“’Cos I can actually see it from here,” Ianto replied. “Come closer… but slowly and carefully.”

While Prince William approached the alien ship – a rusty-looking, pockmarked metal cylinder of the size of a bus, lying on its side behind the garbage bins – Ianto activated his earpiece again.

“Tosh, Gwen, we’ve found the vessel. It’s rather small and obviously damaged, probably an escape pod.”

“We can see it from this side,” Tosh’s voice replied in their ear; the prince had been given an earpiece, too, before they would leave the Hub. “Any sign of the pilot? Or any hosts?”

“None so far, so be careful. Any hosts already implanted must be homeless people; the ship’s just come through the Rift, it’s unlikely that they’d have the time to catch anyone else”.

“But not impossible,” Tosh said in worry.

“No,” Ianto allowed. “We’ll have to knock out everyone and take them back to the Hub for a thorough investigation. Those implants may not be the only way to control people; just the only visible one.”

“Let’s hope Owen wakes up sometime during the day,” Gwen commented; then she screamed something in Welsh, then the sounds of weapon fire could be heard through their earpieces and, right afterwards, the electric buzz of a tazer and, finally, some heavy _thuds_ , like bodies hitting the ground.

“Tosh, Gwen, you all right?” Ianto asked frantically, while they were running towards the sounds of the fight.

“We’re both unharmed,” Tosh replied a moment later, still breathing heavily. “Gwen shot two implanted persons and I've electrocuted the stupid starfish. We’ll need an ambulance here, though; one of the wounded is bleeding rather heavily.”

“Call _St Helen’s_ ,” Ianto instructed. “And stay away from the hosts, just in case. How badly are they wounded?”

“Leg wounds, both of them. I had to stop them somehow,” Gwen said defensively. “I might have nicked a major blood vessel by the one, though.”

“That’s all right; try to stop the bleeding by binding off the injured leg,” Ianto said. “We’ll have them brought to the Hub once their wounds have been dressed. They need to be watched, and the hospital personnel would be in danger. Owen can make himself useful for a change.”

In the meantime they reached the site of the encounter, some ten metres behind the vessel. Two homeless persons – a young woman and an elderly man – were lying on the concrete, bleeding… but not too much, as Tosh and Gwen had managed to bind off the leg of the woman with Tosh’s favourite cashmere scarf. Which would be ruined as a result, Ianto realised, making a mental note to have it replaced, in case dry cleaning wouldn’t work.

The alien parasites that looked very much like small, grey-green starfish indeed, had already been secured in a transparent box by Tosh. They were blackened from the electric fire that had killed them. The prince stared at them in vague disgust.

“And these… _things_ were inside these people?”

Tosh nodded. “Once a person is implanted – the implants are small metallic spheres inserted into the spine by the way – a creature like these begins to grow in the host’s stomach. The Bruydac are slightly psychic and can move their consciousness from host to host, as long as the… the _starfish_ are still inside them. The problem is that the process burns up the human celebro-spinal fluid at an accelerated rate, so the hosts have to feed on others to replenish their own.”

“Hence the chewed-out necks,” the prince realised in horror. “So one of these two killed that old man in the alley.”

Tosh nodded again. “These starfish are nasty little buggers. They can survive outside the host body for quite some time. If put in water, they even begin to grow.”

“I saw one of the size of a giant turtle,” Gwen added with a shudder.

“Also, if exposed to oxygen, they become capable of digesting just any natural material,” Tosh added. “Including rubber or leather – one of them ate through the thick soles of Jack’s boots within a minute or so – or living tissue. The digestive fluid they produce is highly acidic.”

“Don’t remind me,” Gwen shuddered again. “I had one of them on my hand, remember? Had Jack not speared it, I might not _have_ a hand today.”

“What about the actual alien, though?” the prince asked.

“We’re not entirely sure,” Tosh admitted. “The last one Jack killed with a harpoon, so we couldn’t ask… but we might be able to figure out more _now_. Watch out!”

The prince whirled around and was fairly shocked to see a nightmarish giant approaching them with long, ground-eating strides. He wasn’t exactly a dwarf himself, and Ianto might be even taller, but neither of them would reach the broad shoulders of the creature whose long, thin arms ended in thick claws. The bald skull of the… _thing_ had a bony ridge, running from the bridge of the nose to the back of the head. Its heavy-lidded eyes had blood-red irises that didn’t make its appearance particularly trust-inducing.

“Don’t let it come any closer!” Ianto shouted. “Fire at will!”

The two women and the prince obeyed, firing bullets and tazer rays at the approaching alien. Unlike the starfish creatures, the Bruydac itself seemed vulnerable to both projectiles and electronic weapons. It was also remarkably tough, however, so it took almost a full minute to go down.

“Thank God!” Ianto sighed in relief when the alien finally collapsed. “That went actually better than expected. All right, Tosh, call an ambulance, but demand Dr Connelly. It’s bad enough that we’ll have to Retcon the driver and the paramedics. And then try to wake up Owen. Tell him that if he isn’t in the Hub within thirty minutes, I’ll go and drag him in personally.”

“What about the homeless victim… and the others?” the prince asked.

Ianto was already speed-dialling Detective Swanson.

“We’ll need help with those,” he answered; then his tone changed just a bit, as soon as his call got picked up. “Detective Swanson? This is Ianto Jones. We’ll need a little help with transporting a few homeless people to our base. No; I hope everything is in the best order with them – well, except that they _are_ homeless, of course – but we’ll have to observe them for a few days to make sure they haven’t been infested with a very… special kind of parasite. A police van? That would be excellent, thank you,” he gave Swanson the address.

“Oh, and one more thing,” he continued. “We’ll need the area cordoned off and watched until tomorrow. That’s the earliest time we’ll be able to move a large and potentially dangerous piece of technology. Thank you, Detective, I owe you one.”

He hung up, just to stare into Gwen’s incredulous and accusing face.

“ _Swanson_?” she practically spat the name. “You involve that cow in a Torchwood operation?”

“Seeing that she’s our new police liaison I don’t see why not?” Ianto replied calmly. “The three of us can’t deal with the victims, a wounded Bruydac warrior _and_ half a dozen potentially implanted people; not even with the help of the lieutenant here. We don’t have the manpower; not yet. The police do. It’s that simple.”

“But – but _I am_ the police liaison!” Gwen sputtered indignantly.

“You _were_ ,” Ianto corrected. “You screwed up. All you ever managed to do was annoying the police, so I’ve replaced you. In case you haven’t realised, we need the police, more often than not. We can’t afford to alienate them.”

“But Jack always said…”

“Yeah, I know his favourite speech by heart, too – outside the government, beyond the police, blah, blah. That doesn’t mean that we won’t need their cooperation. _You_ couldn’t secure that cooperation, so I found someone who can. End of the story.”

“You can’t just give my job to Swanson!” Gwen fumed.

“Oh yes, I can; and I have,” Ianto replied coldly. “Besides, you still _have_ your job… for the time being anyway. You’re just no longer our police liaison, that’s all. Now, do make yourself useful and help me shackle this guy and stuff him into the boot of the SUV before the police arrive. I’d rather they didn’t catch a glimpse of him. It would be a bit hard to explain away.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Some fifteen minutes later, when the police van – driven by the irrepressible Andy Davidson – arrived, the Bruydac warrior was already shackled on his wrists and ankles, heavily sedated and stored in the boot, wrapped in several body bags, just to be safe. During their so far only encounter with the species half a year or so previously, Torchwood had not got the chance to find out how much it took to keep one of them down, so Ianto was not taking any chances.

“I won’t be breathing more freely until it’s in one f the cells,” he explained to the prince.

“I thought it’s dead,” Prince William said in surprise.

Ianto shook his head. “Not yet. These guys are bloody hard to kill. We’ll see if it regenerates or not.”

“What if it does?”

“Well, I won’t execute it right away – not before we get the chance to find out if it ended up here by accident or was looking for his comrades from previously – but frankly, I don’t know what to do with it if it lives. The species as a whole seems too aggressive and dangerous for peaceful cohabitation; of course, the Doctor says the same about mankind,” he added wryly.

“Then you’ll have to execute it, after all,” the prince said. 

He _was_ a little disappointed. This was his very first alien encounter, after all, he’d have liked to learn a bit more about the Bruydac.

“I hope it will do us the favour of dying on its own,” Ianto replied. “If not, we’ll either have to keep it in a cell or put it in a cryogenic unit – unless we find a way to send it back to where it’s come from.”

“Was it what you did last time?” the prince asked, while Tosh and Gwen were helping Andy to herd the homeless people into the police van. Then Tosh climbed in with them and they left for the Hub.

“Last time Jack managed to reverse the course of the warship and it went back through the Rift on its own,” Ianto explained. “It _might_ be that Tosh can repeat the process, but it’s unlikely. We’ll have to bring the lifepod – if that’s what it is – back to the Hub, or rather to an empty warehouse that belongs to us, take it apart and melt the pieces in our special oven. If this implanting technology gets into the wrong hands… we simply can’t risk that.”

The prince nodded in agreement. “I can see why. But will you be able to safely dismantle it?”

“Well, not me, obviously, although I did learn a great deal about alien technology by simply watching Jack or Suzie. But Tosh and Trevor between the two of them… yeah, I think so. Mickey might be of assistance, too. I’m so glad that we’re up to three technically savvy people again! We felt the loss of Suzie keenly last year. She might have gone mad from the horrors she’d seen here, but she was a tech wizard… more so than it was healthy for her. It’s a shame really. In her own way she was absolutely brilliant.”

“It seems to me that Torchwood breaks people at a fairly young age,” the prince said slowly.

Ianto nodded. “Torchwood _Three_ certainly does; although, to be fair, most of us were already broken when we joined up. Oh, here’s the ambulance at least – _and_ Detective Swanson! Now we might actually wrap up this case for the day.”

The emergency doctor coming with the ambulance – a big, curvaceous, good-natured woman with baby smooth _café au lait_ skin and short-cropped black curls – greeted the Torchwood team with obvious familiarity.

“I hope Owen can put his act together,” she said. “Cos this spooky stuff isn’t exactly my field of expertise.”

“You’ll get used to it, Angie,” Ianto smiled. “You’ve already seen more than most people would be allowed to remember.”

She rolled her large coffee brown eyes.

“Geez, thank you, Jones, you really know how to make a girl feel much better. Oh; who’s Blondie here?” she asked, spotting the prince and clearly founding him to her liking, despite the disguise.

“Military observer from London,” Ianto lied without missing a beat. “We call him Billy the Fish. Don’t worry, he’s harmless. Lieutenant, this is Dr Angela Connelly from St Helen’s Hospital. I hope I can talk her into freelancing for us a bit while our own medic is, well, incapacitated.”

“You mean continually stone drunk, don’t you?” Dr Connelly shook Prince William’s hand. “Nice to meet, you, Lieutenant. Well, I must be off. Our patients are cared for and ready to be delivered to Torchwood. I’ll see you all in the Hub later.”

With that, she climbed into the ambulance car and they sped off, taking Gwen with them. The prince and Ianto were now the only ones to remain at the crime scene – and Detective Swanson, of course, who had just finished getting the area cordoned off and placing constables to guard it and was now examining the victim.

“A rather… _unusual_ injury,” she commented. “Any idea what caused it?”

“The official theory would be a rabid dog attacking him in his sleep,” Ianto replied. “I’ll tell you the truth tomorrow, when we’ll hopefully have all the details. Team debriefing at 9 am, if you think you can join us. In the Hub.”

“Oh, so I finally get to see your super secret base?” she joked, but her eyes remained sad. “Can we get the body to the morgue?”

“We’ll take care of him,” Ianto promised. “As soon as we can be sure that there re no… unusual parasites in the wound, we’ll have him buried properly. No-one else would do it, and Torchwood can afford it. Since we’ve failed to protect him, that’s the least we can do.”


	13. A Night in the Hub

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER 13 – A NIGHT IN THE HUB**

Prince William chose to spend the night in the Hub, although Ianto did offer to get him proper rooms at _St David’s Hotel_ , where he had excellent contacts. The prince wanted to see as much as possible from the Hub, though, and since he only had four days to spend in Cardiff altogether, he decided to stay in the base.

Respecting his wishes, Ianto sacrificed his own night (not that _that_ would have been anything new or unusual) and led him round some of the parts Tosh had only referred to in the previous day. Not all of them, of course; for that, several weeks wouldn’t have been enough. But as promised, he did introduce him to Mainframe, the centre and final source of all Torchwood Three activities.

He took the prince deep down, to the cavernous hole beneath the Hub, where the crystalline entity they affectionately called Mainframe was growing slowly but steadily, extending new stalactite- and stalagmite-like fingers only slightly faster than nature would do in a dripstone cave. But _these_ extensions were _alive_ ; from time to time, tiny sparks of light leapt from one to another, transferring thousands of gigabytes of information in a fraction of a second.

Ianto had the prince press his palm against the central slab of crystal that looked like a faceless console with a barely visible golden light throbbing deep below its surface, and William realised, with a jolt of fear and excitement, that the crystal was _warm_ – not overly so, only slightly warmer than his own body temperature, but warm nonetheless. Warmer than one would have expected in the chilly cavern.

Ianto smiled at his startled reaction.

“She likes you,” he said. “That’s how she communicates: people she likes feel warmth. When Tosh comes down here, the whole surface all but glows with heat. She’s Mainframe’s favourite. Those she doesn’t like just feel cold crystal. And strangers can’t even get down here.”

“I imagine they can’t,” William replied. “Those vault doors are impressive, to say the least. Not Earth-manufactured, I guess.”

“According to Jack, they’re a piece of intelligent metal that fell through the Rift in the 1960s,” Ianto replied. “They feed on radiation – all sorts of radiation, so not only do they keep this area radiation free, they can also knock out living organisms by draining them from biochemical energy, which is very practical. Mainframe managed to bond with the metal somehow, and it shaped itself into these doors. They’ve been there ever since Torchwood rediscovered Mainframe – unless Jack was pulling my leg.”

“Aren’t there any records that would prove or belie his statement?” the prince asked.

Ianto snorted. “Unfortunately, they only record the fact that the doors exist, not the _hows_ and the _whys_. And Jack is known to have told the one or other outrageous tale, just to confuse the rest of us,” he rested his palm on the surface for a moment and was greeted by a wave of warmth. “We should go now. Mainframe likes her peace and quiet. But she’s accepted you and will let you into the base any time you want from now on.”

“I thought one needed an access code for that,” the prince said. “Or retina scans. Or voice recognition, or whatnot.”

“Usually an access code would be required; stricter security measurements are only needed to access the Archives or other restricted areas,” Ianto explained, smiling. “But Mainframe does allow a few selected people to enter without any of that.”

“Who are those people?”

“Tosh, of course, myself… and now you.”

“What about Captain Harkness?”

“For a long time, Jack could simply get in, too. Then he managed to upset Mainframe somehow – I still don’t know what’s actually happened – and now he needs access codes like every other Torchwood member. Even though he was the one who got Myfanwy registered with One as a sentient life form.”

“Amazing!” Prince William commented, entering the lift cabin with Ianto. “Is your Mainframe the only sentient, organic computer that you know of?”

“The only one of her magnitude, yeah. Her sister in London was destroyed. Ms Smith has one, too, but of different origins and much smaller in size. But other than that… if there’s another one, we haven’t been told.”

They reached the main Hub level and exited the lift. Ianto then introduced the prince to Myfanwy, fed a bar of dark chocolate to the pteranodon before letting her out for her nightly flying exercises. Not quite surprisingly, the prince was even more awed by Myfanwy than he’d been by seeing Mainframe. Because, honestly, as impressive as a living, growing, developing organic computer was, it could never beat a real, live flying dinosaur in the miracle department.

Somewhen in the middle of the night Owen finally arrived, looking like death warmed over. Ianto wordlessly handed him some little green pills, which he accepted with a scowl, swallowed without water and then went on to check on his patients, both the live and the dead ones.

“What kind of pills are those?” the prince asked, looking after the ill-tempered medic who didn’t even seem to have noticed his presence.

“Owen’s hangover cure,” Ianto replied with a weary sigh. “I keep them in the safe cos he tends to abuse them frequently.”

“That won’t keep him from drinking himself into an early grave, though,” Prince William warned. “He seems fairly gone already.”

“I know,” Ianto confessed. “And I intend to get some help for him, whether he wants or not. But until we find a replacement we can’t go on without him.”

“What about the emergency doctor from yesterday?” the prince asked. “She seems to know a great deal about Torchwood already.”

Ianto nodded. “I’d like to hire her on a freelance basis, but that’s only a temporary solution. She likes her job at _St Helen’s_ and I don’t think she’d be willing to give it up for becoming a full Torchwood member; I can’t blame her for that. Besides, she still needs to learn everything about alien life from the scratch. I can’t get her deal with that on her own.”

That was doubtlessly very true, so they dropped the topic. Ianto showed the prince one of the Spartan little rooms where the team slept a few hours when they had to stay in the Hub for the night, as well as the communal showers, and suggested him to have a short rest.

“What about you?” Prince William asked because frankly, Ianto looked like shit, too.

“I still have some reports to file about the Bruydac encounter,” Ianto replied tiredly. “But I’ll have a little sleep afterwards, too. Tomorrow’s debriefing promises to be… er… explosive, to say the least.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Prince William followed the suggestion – a bit reluctantly, as he’d have preferred to explore the Hub some more, but he realised that Ianto had been right. The first meeting of the new Torchwood team promised to be full of tension, and if he wanted to act as a mediator, which he did, he needed all his wits about him. This was his first task where his diplomatic skills would be tested, and he was determined not to fail.

So he slept in one of the bleak little rooms, woke up at ungodly five o’clock in the morning – military training kicking in, perhaps as a result of the uncomfortable bed – used the communal showers and was back to the main Hub area at five-forty.

He found Ianto already there, wearing a different suit – he probably kept several changes of clothes in storage, just in case which, having seen the average Torchwood field action from close up, the prince didn’t find surprising – but the same blank expression as always. And, if the heavenly aromas wafting in the air were any indication, he was making coffee.

“Tosh is on her way,” he told the prince,” and Owen is still sleeping in one of the resting rooms. Hopefully, the smell of coffee will wake him up, so that I won’t have to. He can be most unpleasant when torn from his sleep.”

“More unpleasant than last night?” Prince William grinned.

That earned him a small, ironic smile from the young Torchwood director. “Oh, believe me; for him, the attitude of last night was positively charming.”

As if proving his predicament, the doctor emerged from one of the side rooms, his face still wearing the pattern of the pillow he’d used. Like a zombie, he zoned on to the niche where the huge, gleaming old-fashioned coffee machine stood and grabbed one of the mugs, which was obviously his own.

“I want a biscuit,” he muttered petulantly. Ianto shrugged.

“The bakery on the Plass won’t open for another half an hour. But you’re free to make the run to Tesco’s and buy some.”

Owen just gave him the finger, which successfully killed all attempts of conversation until Toshiko arrived – with a huge paper bag of Danish pastries and cinnamon rolls. Owen became revitalized at once and the four of them sat down in the conference room to have breakfast in relative peace.

Gwen was the next to arrive. She came through the tourist office, with the blearing of alarms following her. She seemed to be in a foul mood and took her coffee with her to her workplace in the main Hub area. What she was doing there was everyone’s guess, as she didn’t even touch the huge pile of unfinished paperwork on her desk, just kept staring at her computer screen with an ever-deepening scowl. 

She still could follow their conversation, though, as the individual workplaces had direct audio connection to the conference room, so Ianto wasn’t particularly bothered by her absence.

“So, what’s the plan for today?” Owen asked, finally sober and caffeinated enough to be rudimentarily civil again.

“The new team members should be arriving from London, soon,” Ianto told him. “We’ve got an engineer, a communications technician and a field agent with ample experience in both alien life and technology. He brings his own large truck, which might come in handy. Detective Swanson will bring with her the new life sciences officer… well, a promising candidate anyway.”

“Do we know him?” Owen asked.

“Her,” Ianto corrected. “Yes, we do. It’s Lloyd from SOCO. She’s a biochemist and a geneticist, the two of you will have to work together, so try to behave, Owen.”

“Up yours, Teaboy,” Owen muttered.

“Hardly,” Ianto replied, completely unfazed by their doctor’s rudeness. “I also invited Dr Connelly to our debriefing at 9 am. I want her to help out with the autopsies from time to time.”

“That’ll cost us a fair bit of Retcon,” Owen commented sourly. 

Ever since the disaster with Suzie, they were a lot less comfortable with Retconning people, unless it was absolutely necessary.

Ianto shook his head. “No, it won’t. I’ve officially requested Detective Swanson as our police liaison and disclosed the true mission of Torchwood to her. She took it all in her stride, actually.”

“She’s one tough lady; and so is Lloyd,” Owen agreed. “But what about Angie? Should she truly know the truth?”

“She’ll have to if she’s willing to freelance for Torchwood,” Ianto replied; at Owen’s obvious shock he shrugged again. ”Look, at the very least she can take over the autopsies. That will free you up for field work and more research.”

“So it’s not you, jumping at the golden opportunity to replace me?” Owen asked in suspicion.

“Not until you give me a reason to do so,” Ianto answered. “And if I have to, I won’t choose Angie. This is no place for her to be all the time.”

“But it’s the place for _us_ , yeah?” Owen scowled.

To their surprise, it was Tosh who answered him. “We’ve got nowhere else to go, Owen, and you know that. Other people do. We should leave them that chance.”

Before Owen could have answered, the alarm went off in the cells. They all swallowed the rest of their coffee and sweets and ran to the lift to go down to the sublevel where the Bruydac victims and the potentially infected homeless people were kept, separate from the Weevils and the Bruydac itself.

The alarm came from the cell of the older victim: a homeless man of about sixty. He’d been put into a hospital scrub and cuffed to his bed in the previous evening and given a cardiac monitor for the observation of his life sings. That monitor was now beeping frantically and the man was straining against his restrains, trying to break free.

“Shit!” Owen cursed, rummaging in his medkit to find the right dose of sedative. “I didn’t know the Bruydac could control their hosts even after the starfish things are gone.”

“They still have the implants,” Ianto reminded him.

“Do you think they’ve grown another one of those starfish parasites?” Tosh asked.

Owen shrugged, having finally found the right phial and plunged the needle through the seal, filling the syringe.

“Fuck if I know. Te other ones didn’t last long enough to experiment with them. Right; this is it. Let me in, Teaboy, and close the door behind me.”

“You might need backup,” the prince said.

“What I need is to make sure the guy can’t escape,” Owen returned. “Trust me; I had such an implant in my spine, I know what a host is capable of. Now let me in!”

Still a bit reluctantly, but knowing that Owen was right, Ianto opened the unbreakable glass slide door just wide enough for Owen to slip through. The doctor went in and rammed the needle into the patient’s upper arm not too gently, emptying the syringe with a quick push. The results were less than satisfactory, to say the least. Something in the elderly man clearly tried to fight the industrial-strength sedative, because he went into convulsions; and rather violent ones, at that. Prince William could hear the sickening sound as one of the victim’s forearm bones snapped, and he briefly considered getting sick.

Then the man suddenly went eerily quiet; he drew a deep, shuddering breath and simply stopped.

“Fuck!” Owen wielded some small, hand-held device, presumably a scanner, over the now motionless body. “No brain activity. No heartbeat. He’s gone.”

“Can you find another one of those starfish things in his stomach?” Ianto asked, his voice eerily calm.

“Nope,” Owen scanned the abdominal area of the victim. “There _is_ something in here that doesn’t belong, but if it’s another parasite or the beginning of a tumour, only the autopsy would tell. Dammit, I haven’t thought this could happen!”

“Not your fault,” Ianto said calmly. “Clearly, the Bruydac’s still alive and tried to control the host through the premature creature. When it realised it wouldn’t work, it simply killed the host.”

“If I hadn’t injected the sedative…” Owen muttered unhappily.

“The old man would have died nonetheless,” Ianto interrupted. “We have no way to replace the spinal fluid burned up by the growing parasite, and we couldn’t have let him chew out the brains of other people. This was actually the more merciful death.”

“What about the girl, though?” Tosh asked.

“Let’s hope her heart is strong enough,” Owen replied. “When we kill the Bruydac, she’ll be free and might survive. _I have_.”

“And then what?” Gwen demanded accusingly. “Retcon her back to her diapers? She’ll need an awfully high dose to forget what happened to her… it might destroy her mind! Or turn her into a violent killer!”

“You should have thought about the possible lasting effects of Retcon before you drugged your own boyfriend to make him forget that you’d cheated on him,” Owen shot back. “Besides, it’s either Retcon or Flat Holm – which one is better?”

“What’s on Flat Holm?” Gwen asked, while Ianto sent Owen a death glare that could have killed a mastodon.

“It’s not your concern,” he replied coolly. “We _will_ have to risk giving the girl Retcon, assuming she survives her ordeal. There’s simply no alternative. We cannot allow her to tell her story to the other homeless people.”

“Don’t you think they would already know a lot?” Gwen shot back. “It was them that got chewed out last time, too; and they live in close quarters with the Weevils. They ought to have noticed _something_ by now.”

“They do notice things,” Ianto agreed calmly. “Which is why all have an emergency number to call Torchwood if they have to. They know we’ll come and deal with whatever it is, as long as they don’t ask questions. But a Bruydac implantation is something else than your run-of-the-mill monster of the week. I don’t want them to panic. It won’t help anyone.”

“Yeah, and it’s your decision what they are allowed to know and what they aren’t – since when?” Gwen taunted.

“Since Her Majesty appointed me as the new Torchwood Director,” Ianto answered dismissively. “All right, Owen, let’s get this poor man into the morgue. You and Angie can do the autopsy later. Right now we need to check on the Bruydac. It might try to make the girl attempt to break out, too.”

“This poor guy will keep if we shut off the heating of the cell,” Owen said. “Let’s go and check on Popeye first.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
As they went over to the high security cell (the same one in which Ianto had once hidden the half-converted Lisa, now rebuilt and reinforced by all possible means at Torchwood’s disposal) Prince William had to admit that – despite the red eyes and the cranial ridge – the alien did indeed have a fleeting resemblance to the comic hero. It had the same bald skill, the same flat nose and the same wide mouth. 

At that point the likeness stopped, though. Popeye was one of the good guys. This alien was very obviously _not_.

It was also very obviously awake now, his red eyes glittering malevolently under the heavy lids, his lips pulled back to reveal a row of very sharp teeth.

“Can you tell us anything about its condition without entering the cell?” Ianto asked Owen.

“Not much,” the doctor admitted. “It’s one tough bastard though, for sure. The tazer rays may have fried its nerves for a while, but it’s already bounced back, and its bullet wounds have begun to heal, too. It will be back on its feet within days, I’m afraid.”

“We can’t allow that,” Ianto said grimly. “There’s no reasoning with these creatures; the last encounter has proved that without doubt.”

“So, what are we doing with it?” Owen asked. “Freeze it or shoot it to death?”

“I’d say let’s freeze it first, so that you can make some scans and learn whatever you can about the species,” Ianto suggested. “Then we’ll try to find a way to send it back where it came from.”

“You can actually do it?” the prince asked in surprise. “I thought Captain Harkness only managed to do so by reversing the course of a ship already wedged into the Rift.”

“We can _try_ ,” Ianto clarified. “We do have the coordinates where the last ship went to when Jack reversed its direction, and Tosh is working on a method that would enable us to define the location where the other end of the Rift leads when it’s open, in any given time. In theory, if it opens into the same direction again, we might be able to send our… guest home by simply pushing it through the Rift.”

“In theory,” the prince repeated. Ianto shrugged.

“Well, it has never been tried before. But Tosh is a genius; it might work. And sending the guy home to his own kind is still more humane than simply murdering it for trying to survive on a planet very different from its own. _Presumably_ different. We can’t know for sure, of course.”

“You gotta be kidding!” Gwen protested. “These monsters don’t care whom they kill, and you wanna be humane with them? Were _they_ humane to our people?”

“They can’t be expected to be,” Ianto replied flatly. “They aren’t humans, are they? It doesn’t mean _we_ ought to become murderers, just because they have a different set of morale.”

“Perhaps,” the prince allowed. “But wouldn’t keeping it alive endanger the base… and the people of Cardiff? Are your Vaults truly secure enough?”

Ianto nodded. “Oh yes, they are. They’ve been built using advanced alien technology – including intelligent metals, as you know – with the express intention to contain any possible danger. They are even shielded against temporal disturbances. There’s been an astonishingly wide range of extraterrestrial creatures kept in the Vaults during the recent century and a half – not all of them dead.”

“What?” Gwen cried. “I was never told that!”

Ianto shrugged. “You never asked,” he then turned to Tosh. “Please go back to the main Hub and begin to lower the temperature in Room 121B gradually. We’ll move the Bruydac to the Vaults as soon as its body temperature has reached –15°C. Just in case its species can tolerate cold better than ours.”

Tosh nodded and hurried off. Owen eyed the alien through the small spyhole in the massive steel door warily.

“A good thing we’ve shackled it to the gurney,” he said. “Otherwise it would be a bitch to move such a big, heavy guy.”

“It still won’t be easy,” Ianto sighed. “Let’s hope the others arrive before it’s properly frozen. Mickey seems to have some impressive upper body strength; he could be of help with moving it.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Certain unspecified higher powers must have listened to Ianto’s plea, because Sally Jacobs, Trevor Howard and Mickey Smith showed up at half past eight near the water tower. Ianto left through the tourist office to pick them up.

“I’ve let the truck in the warehouse you told me about,” Mickey told him after the obligatory greetings. Ianto nodded.

“We might need it – and _you_ – later today to pick up a small alien lifepod in Splott,” he said. “Where’s Ms Smith?”

“At _St. David’s Hotel_ ,” Sally replied. “She booked a room via internet from London. She said the less she knows about Torchwood the better for everyone involved. She’ll contact you when she’d settled in.”

“Probably for the better,” Ianto agreed. “Please follow me. We’ll take the scenic route for now. I’ll show you the emergency entrance later.”

He led them down the secret tunnel, along corridors and then even deeper, using the internal lift, to the main Hub area. The utter amazement with which they looked around was very satisfying. Granted, the Hub _was_ a somewhat chaotic place – vast in some aspects and fairy cluttered in others – but that was part of its unique charm.

Unlike Torchwood Tower, it had _history_. It had existed for a century and a half, more or less – almost as long as Torchwood House.

Besides, Ianto planned some serious redecorating, as soon as the new team was forged. Some aspects of the current layout had insulted his sense of order ever since he’d joined the Cardiff team. Not to mention that they needed a few more working areas. Like labs. And a better medical bay. He might even agree to that hothouse for alien plants Owen had been whining about all the time, only to be ignored by Jack.

After the newcomers had absorbed the dimensions of the Hub (for the time being anyway) Ianto introduced them to Tosh and Owen and suggested to relocate to the conference room until the arrival of their other candidate, Dr Sara Lloyd. There he had them sign the Official Secrets Act before starting on anything of importance.

“I’m sure you had to sign it when you were hired by UNIT already,” he said, giving Sally and Trevor an apologetic look. “But it has always been Torchwood policy to have a recent copy for the official records. Just in case somebody tries to cause problems.”

“No skin off my nose, Jonesy,” Trevor replied with a shrug and a grin. “I used to be One, remember? I know how to cover the paper trail properly.”

“By _somebody_ trying to cause problems you meant UNIT, didn’t you?” Sally asked quietly. 

Ianto nodded. “We must not give them any openings they could use against us. Especially as we no longer have Headquarters to back us up. Certain UNIT bosses have become too fond of the idea that whatever is alien it’s theirs by right.”

“I thought that was One’s favourite saying,” Trevor commented.

“Yeah,” Ianto answered darkly. “And we both saw where it led, didn’t we? The problem is, UNIT’s been showing similar tendencies ever since the fall of One, and I don’t have the same weight to throw around as Jack had. So we better follow proper procedure with painstaking accuracy. It’s boring, but it keeps us safer.”

“You won’t top an alien invasion by paperwork,” Gwen said; like Owen, she hated paperwork and had often enough made Ianto do hers in the past. Now that chance seemed to be gone, and that annoyed her.

“No,” Ianto agreed. “But it might keep UNIT off our backs, so that we can stop an alien invasion if needs must be. Speaking of which, Tosh, is our… _guest_ properly cooled yet?”

Tosh consulted one of her multiple computer screens. “Seems so, yes. I’ve lowered the room temperature to –20°C. It ought to be out like a light by now… unless its species is extremely cold-resistant.”

Owen shook his head. “Unlikely. If they’d live in arctic temperatures, it would have overheated in our climate in no time. Yet there was no sign of that.”

“We should have a tazer handy nonetheless,” Ianto said. “Mickey, you ready to help us put a seven-feet-tall hostile alien into the freezer?”

“What kind of alien?” Mickey asked with interest, already rising from his seat.

“Bruydac,” Owen replied. “Ever ran into them?” Mickey shook his head. “Well, be glad you haven’t. They’re nasty fuckers… and seriously ugly, too.”

“Well, we’re not gonna flirt with them, are we?” Mickey shrugged. “Not that Captain Cheesecake aint’t here anymore.”

“Trust me,” Owen said grimly. “This is one alien not even Harkness would waste his charm on.”

“And one that would thaw out soon, _unless_ we stop chatting and put it into one of the cryogenic units,” Ianto warned. “So, if the two of you’d do the honours.”

“I’ll go, too,” Prince William rose. “I want to see those Vaults. Didn’t quite get around to visit them last night.”

“You haven’t lost much,” Owen muttered. “I don’t know what’s worse: all those monsters on ice… or our dead colleagues from the previous teams. Compared with the Vaults, the morgue is a positively cheerful place.”

“Nonetheless, it’s part of Torchwood,” the prince replied. “I came here to learn as much as I can about Torchwood, to make a good liaison.”

Owen gave Gwen a malicious grin. “You heard that, Cooper? The lieutenant actually has a clue what’s needed to be a good liaison. Perhaps if _you’d_ given it a thought, you hadn’t been replaced by Swanson.”

Gwen muttered something unintelligible under her breath. She demonstratively didn’t join them when they went down to the Vaults to put the Bruydac on ice, though.


	14. Debriefing

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER 14 – DEBRIEFING**

When the four men came back from the Vaults, they all seemed a bit sweaty and dishevelled, even the prince who’d considered it as a matter of honour to help the other three deal with the Bruydac… that apparently weighed half a ton or so. In the meantime it was almost 9 am, and Ianto went up to the tourist office to meet Detective Swanson, Dr Connelly and their last new candidate, Dr Sara Lloyd.

“We’ll need someone to run the tourist office eventually,” Tosh commented, making the prince and herself a cup of tea; everyone else opted to wait for Ianto’s magic cup of coffee. “He can’t very well play receptionist _and_ coffee boy, now that he’s our boss.”

“Don’t look at me,” Gwen scoffed. “I was shop girl once, right after school – never again!”

“Yeah; you’d scare away all the tourists, and we wouldn’t have a cover shop anymore,” Owen said nastily. Despite his magic hangover pills, he still felt like shit, which didn’t improve his generally sour disposition. “Besides, your coffee sucks.”

“ _Everybody_ ’s coffee sucks compared with Jonesy’s,” Trevor grinned. “Even Yvonne was addicted to it. Jonesy had to come up from the Archives at least three times a day, much to Mr Howarth’s displeasure, to keep her properly caffeinated.”

“Are you speaking of Director Hartman?” Prince William asked. Trevor nodded.

“Yeah. Jonesy was actually Mr Howarth’s apprentice; had nothing to do with the management. But Yvonne kept thinking up administrative jobs for him, just so that she could call him up to her office and make him fix her coffee. As a result, Jonesy knew more of the inner workings of One than everybody else, save perhaps Yvonne herself – not that he’d need it, of course. But you know what a freakishly good memory he has. He never forgets a thing.

“He might not have needed the knowledge back then,” Prince William said. “It might prove useful in his current situation, though.”

“There’s hat,” Trevor agreed; then he looked up to Ianto who was entering the conference room with a pot of freshly brewed coffee in that very moment. “So, Jonesy, are you still making us coffee, even though you’re practically Yvonne now?”

Ianto raised a superior eyebrow while pouring coffee for everyone.

“As if I’d allow any of you bunglers to even come near to my coffee machine!”

Trevor laughed. “Point taken. But Toshiko’s right, man. You’re the boss now. You can’t keep playing the butler. Or the janitor. Or the glorified zookeeper. Whatever.”

“I don’t intend to,” Ianto took the chair at the head of the table – _Jack’s chair_ , Gwen thought angrily – and allowed himself the second cup of coffee of the day.

“Frankly, I’ve just about had enough of mucking out the cells of the Weevils on my own during the recent year,” he continued. “Or feeding them. Or cleaning up Owen’s mess in the autopsy bay.”

“Hey!” Owen protested. “I’m a doctor; cleaning up isn’t my job!”

“You’re Torchwood,” Ianto corrected coldly. “Which, by its very definition, is a smelly, dangerous, dirty job, but somebody has to do it – _all_ of it. If you can’t, I’ll find somebody who can.”

Owen became stark white upon hearing this. “Are you firing me? Like Jack did?”

“No,” Ianto sighed. “I’d like to keep you if I can. We _need_ you. But you’re a grown adult, so I expect you to clean up your own mess and do your own paperwork from now on. _And_ you’ll take your turn at cleaning the cells and feeding the Weevils, like everyone else – except Tosh, of course.”

“Why is she an exception?” demanded Gwen angrily.

“Because she’s our head scientist and she’s needed in a dozen other places,” Ianto replied. “I won’t waste her precious time with such menial tasks.”

“Oh, but you’d waste _mine_ , wouldn’t you?” Gwen fumed.

“Yes,” Ianto said with such glacial finality that it shut her up for once. “No more special treatment for you, Gwen. In fact, I’ll put you through three months of probation, as Jack should have done from the beginning. Then you’ll receive another three months of special training before I’d allow you to go on field missions; or even to carry a weapon again.”

“That’s not fair!” Gwen protested. “Jack’s trained me on weapons!”

“Feeling you up on the shooting range while showing you how to _hold_ a weapon doesn’t count as proper training,” Ianto replied coldly. “Torchwood has protocols for training a field agent and those are he rightlines we’ll be following from now on.”

“You mean the rules of One?” Tosh asked quietly. “Jack wouldn’t like that, Ianto. He severed all ties with Headquarters years ago.”

“Nonsense,” Ianto said. “You can’t severe ties with Headquarters… well, you _couldn’t_. Jack might have refused to cooperate with Yvonne on a regular basis, but he still had to send monthly reports to Headquarters. Otherwise Three would have lost its funds, and he couldn’t afford that.”

“Yeah, sure,” Gwen muttered.

“I saw those reports with my own eyes, so you can stop with this theatre now,” Ianto snapped. “Besides, the rules were not just for One. They were for all branches; and most of them were good, solid rules, made to ensure that we’d survive as long as it’s possible in this area of work. The rightlines for recruiting and training new members are definitely reasonable, and we’ll stick to them.”

“Does this mean that we’re on a three-month trial period as well?” Sally Jacobs asked. Ianto nodded.

“Sure. Even though in your and Trevor’s case it’s a mere formality and Mickey probably has more experience with aliens than the rest of us together, the same rules are valid for everyone. Dr Lloyd,” he turned to the SOCO lady, “I understand that SOCO members don’t receive weapons training as a rule, right?”

The tall blonde with the ponytail grinned.

“Most of us don’t. But I did quite a bit of shooting at university; was a member of both the pistol and the rifle team, in fact. We won a few competitions against other universities, and I had fairly good scores. I still put in a few hours on the shooting range from time to time, to be able to keep my licence.”

“That’s a relief,” Ianto said. “We’re still few in the numbers, which means you might have to go out with the field team from time to time. I’m glad to know that we’ll be able to arm you legally.”

“My licence is still valid, Jonesy,” Trevor said without being asked. “All I need is some regular time at the shooting range to keep me in form.”

“You’ll get it; like everyone else, including me. Mickey has the most experience with weapons, so I’ll lay the training of the team into his capable hands,” Ianto looked at the enthusiastically grinning ex-freedom fighter. “Mickey, I’ll also need your knowledge when it comes to alien weapons: what they’re capable of, which ones can be safely used by humans and so on. Now that we’ve lost both Jack and Suzie, you’re the closest thing we have to a weapons expert.”

“Right, boss. Do you want a spreadsheet about it, too?”

“Yes, if it doesn’t eat up much of your time.”

“Nah; I like to do things on the computer. Do you guys have an actual armoury here?”

“We do, but the last inventory was before my time; most likely before Jack took over in 2000,” Ianto sighed. “I’ve always planned to do a new one, but with the Archives still being a horrible chaos and all the other shit I was expected to do, I simply didn’t get around to take a look at the armoury. You can use the last inventory list for a stepping stone and go on from there.”

Mickey nodded. “Will do. And I don’t mind help with the Weevils, either. It would be like having pets; I always wanted some, but they weren’t allowed on the estate where we lived.”

“Yeah, but these pets can kill you without breaking a sweat,” Owen warned him; if anyone, he knew exactly what Weevils were capable of.

Mickey shrugged. “So can a poisonous snake, and a lot of people still keep them. What about the pterodactyl, though?”

“Pteranodon, actually,” Ianto corrected. “Don’t worry about her. Myfanwy is my concern. She wouldn’t let anyone else into her nest anyway. Not before she gets used to you; and that can take a long time.”

“All right, I’ll stick to the Weevils,” Mickey said. “But I do get to play with the Torchwood mobile, right?”

“Sure,” Ianto replied. “You’re a car mechanic, aren’t you? At least I can rest assured that the SUV will be in good hands,” he turned to Sara Lloyd. “As for you, Dr Lloyd, I’d like you to study our alien database until we find the right place for your new DNA lab. You may also find it useful to assist during the autopsies from time to time, so that you can see the real thing behind the data.”

“You have an actual alien database?” Prince William had the feeling as if he’d fallen through the Rift, right into Star Trek or some other science fiction show. Sally Jacobs seemed equally surprised.

“And a rather extensive one at that,” Ianto answered. “We’ve everything Headquarters ever had, plus what Three had collected on its own since Jack took over. He never sent that kind of stuff to One.”

“But – but it was said that the digital databases of One were destroyed in the Battle of Canary Wharf!” Sally insisted.

“They were,” Ianto agreed. “Mr Howarth had managed to send the Worst Case Scenario virus through the entire system before the Cybermen killed him.”

“What kind of virus?” Prince William asked.

“One that physically melted down the crystals of the Torchwood One mainframe through a series of strategically initiated overloads and reformatted every single hard drive in the Tower, save for the ones of Human Resources,” Ianto explained. “The basic idea was to physically destroy all data, so that they couldn’t be reconstructed afterwards.”

“How comes then that you’d have One’s alien database nonetheless?” Sally asked.

“There are safety copies of _all_ Torchwood One databases,” Ianto replied. “As an archivist, I know where to find them. When Jack hired me, I saw that Three had practically no digital records. So I accessed one of those sources and uploaded the copy of the alien database to our Mainframe. Granted, so far Jack’s known most alien species we’ve run into, but sooner or later we ought to find one he hadn’t met yet, either. So I thought having some empiric – not to mention well-ordered – data won’t harm.”

“You said you know all the other databases, right?” Trevor said eagerly.

Ianto shook his head. “No; I said I can _access_ the safety copies if I have to.”

“That’s the same,” Trevor waved dismissively. “What about the technical database? Can you get it for us? For Toshiko and me?”

“Sure,” Ianto answered with a shrug. “That and more. In fact, I’m planning to furnish a couple of proper labs for the two of you on Sublevels One and Two. We just need to clean out the unsorted rubbish that’s stored there, give the rooms proper isolation and heating; perhaps even a paint job. And then we can fetch the right equipment from the respective warehouses One had them in storage. You give me a list of what you need; if One had it, I’ll get it for you.”

“I thought UNIT had laid hand on most of the stuff that survived Canary Wharf,” Tosh said. “We scavenged what we could, but that wasn’t much.”

“Yeah, cause only the currently used stuff was kept in the Tower itself,” Trevor explained. “The rest was stored in warehouses, scattered all across London… and no-one knows where, cause all info has been destroyed.”

“Everything but what I’ve got in my head,” Ianto agreed. “We might not get the latest alien tech discovered by One, but we can get everything from the earlier years, which is still magnitudes better than what we’ve got now… except Mainframe, of course, but she’s a category of her own.”

“And you never thought to tell Jack about this?” Gwen asked accusingly. “We could have all that wonderful tech and you kept it to yourself?”

“Jack wasn’t interested in anything that came from One,” Ianto replied dryly. “And we were in no condition to do any serious research anyway, busy as we were to put out all the immediate fires.”

“We still aren’t,” Owen pointed out. “One had hundreds of scientists. We have three; four if you count me. It isn’t very much.”

“It’s a beginning,” Ianto corrected. “We’ll keep things small, cos that’s what’s always worked best for Three, but I _will_ hire more people eventually. As soon as we had time to grow together as a team.”

“How many more do you intend to hire?” Prince William asked.

Since the funds of Torchwood came directly from the Crown, this was a justified question.

“My final goal is to have three full teams on an eight-hour rotation; and perhaps a couple of ersatz people, in case of illness, injury or other emergencies,” Ianto replied. “We cannot keep improvising as we go, and we need time to rest properly between shifts, at least every other day. Or else we won’t last long. Getting killed cos we were too tired to react how we’re supposed to isn’t an option,” he glanced at Dr Connelly. “Which is why I’d need you to do at least some of the autopsies on a freelance basis. Mostly the human ones. But you’re welcome to try your hand on aliens, too, if that’s what you want.”

Dr Connelly nodded. “Freelancing only,” she clarified. “I want to keep my job at St. Helen’s. Unlike Owen here, I actually like to treat patients while they’re still alive.”

“I’ll work out an agreement with the hospital management,” Ianto promised; then he rose and shook her hand. “Welcome to Torchwood.”

“What about me?” Sally asked. “You don’t really need a communications technician here, and I’m not a scientist. Not yet anyway.”

“On the contrary,” Ianto said. “A communications technician is exactly what we need for the CCTV tracking.”

Sally gave him a blank look. “The _what_?”

“Whenever a retrieval team is out in the field, we need someone who sits here and follows them through the CCTV network,” Ianto explained. “Somebody to keep contact with them through the comm link, to guide them and to warn them if their target moves. It’s not that different from what you did at UNIT, actually.”

Sally nodded in understanding. “All right, I can do that. What else? What when the Rift is quiet?”

“Then you’ll help me in the Archives. I’ve already begun to digitalize the oldest documents, and then seal them to preserve them, but in the year I’ve spent here I’ve barely scratched the surface. There was simply too much else to do. But it needs to be done. Some of the oldest stuff has already begun to disintegrate; if we don’t save it now, the data will be lost for good.”

“Who’s going to run the cover shop, though?” Tosh asked.

“Sooner or later, I’ll have to hire somebody as half shop runner, half archivist,” Ianto shrugged. “Until then, we’ll just have to take turns like with everything else.”

“No way,” Gwen and Owen said in unison and the doctor added. “It’s such a bloody waste of time!”

“It is,” Ianto agreed. “Which is why I don’t see while it should be _my_ time that gets wasted. I’ve done it for the last year all on my own and that was all right, since I accepted it as part of my job. But I’ve got more important thins to do now, so you’ll just have to do your part. All of you.”

“We could set up a live feed between the shop and the main Hub, so that whoever is on duty up there can keep up with what’s going on down here,” Sally said thoughtfully. “And some of the non-confidential filing can be done from there, can’t it?”

“Yes, it can; that’s how I used to do things,” Ianto replied. “Except that there’s no such thing at Torchwood as non-confidential cases. But yes, it can easily be done. We have the know-how and we have the necessary technology. All we have to do is to get it from one of Headquarters’ storage halls.”

“If you can get me the equipment, I can do the rest,” Sally offered.

“You’ll get whatever you need,” Ianto promised. “But you won’t be running the shop exclusively. I was serious about everyone doing their part. The times when the team had a full-time butler and janitor are over. Anyone having a problem with that can take their dosage of Retcon and leave for a new, Torchwood-free life. Is that understood?”

o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o  
Wordless nods were the only answer. The old team members were actually more shocked than the newcomers. This new, self-confident, even aggressive Ianto was a surprise for them… and not necessarily a pleasant one. Even Prince William wondered if Ianto Jones was about to break under the weight of responsibility that had been so unceremoniously dumped onto his young shoulders. After all he’d seen and lived through, it wouldn’t have been a surprise.

Only Trevor kept his cool… but again, he’d known Ianto – the _real_ Ianto, not the quiet, reserved, almost invisible teaboy of Torchwood Three – longer than anyone else. He reached across the table and patted Ianto’s hand encouragingly.

“Don’t lose it now, Jonesy,” he said in a tone that was almost absurdly normal amidst the tension in the room. “We’re here to work for you, not to conspire against you or to undermine your position. Well, most of us anyway,” he added with an unfriendly glare in Gwen’s direction and gave Ianto’s hand a squeeze. “Mates, remember?”

“Sorry,” Ianto rubbed his face tiredly. “Being the boss isn’t something I’ve ever wanted to; or something I’d be really comfortable with. I’ll try to do a good job, but I’m woefully out of my depths here.”

“No, you’re not,” Owen said, to everyone’s surprise. “Only if you try to do things Jack’s way. No-one can pull the shit he pulled. Just stick to your own methods, Teaboy, and you’ll be right as rain.”

Ianto blinked a few times at this unexpected support and almost smiled. Almost.

“Well, thank you, Owen, I’ll try my best,” he then said in his familiar, dry manner. “Now, since we’ve discussed the most important things, I suggest that we just go over to the daily routine. There’s work to do…”

“… and there’s no time like the present to deal with it,” Owen finished for him; this was an old insider joke with Torchwood Three. “All right, Dr Lloyd, Dr Connelly, let me introduce you to our medical facilities – such as they are.”

“Just Lloyd will do,” the ex-SOCO lady said. “We never stood for ceremony at SOCO, and I won’t start it now.”

Owen shrugged. “Fine. Come with me. You too, Angie.”

“You said something about an alien ship we’ll have to collect,” Mickey said to Ianto after the doctors had left. “I’ll need my truck for that – and a route.”

Ianto fished a GPS out of his pocket. “This will help you to navigate; the coordinates are already in it. When you’ve picked up the lifepod, bring it back to the hangar where your truck was parked. Tosh and Trevor will go with you and see to it that all systems are deactivated.”

“Should we start taking it apart right away?” Trevor asked eagerly.

Ianto shook his head. “Not yet; I want to make sure there aren’t any nasty surprises first The only thing that needs to be removed is that implantation machine. Who knows what it would do if left to its own devices.”

“Oh God, no!” Gwen shuddered. “We all could be coughing up those starfish things and chewing out people’s necks in no time!

“Exactly,” Ianto said. “But should we ever figure out how the organic technology of the Bruydac works, we might be able to reverse-engineer it; well, not _us_ , obviously, but the government has research labs for such purposes.”

“How patriotic of you,” Trevor grinned. “You’d make Yvonne so proud!”

“There’s nothing wrong with a little patriotism,” Ianto said calmly. “One just shouldn’t overdo it. Off you go now. I assume the police would like to do something more useful than guarding the area for us.”

“I’ll call them to expect you,” Swanson already had her phone in hand. “They might get a bit nervous otherwise if you just show up with a monster truck.”

Ianto nodded. “Thank you. Well, Lieutenant,” he turned to the prince,” do you want to go with them or with Sally and me to the Archives?”

“What kind of question is _that_?” Prince William grinned. “I’m a pilot. It’s a vessel that can fly. Is there really a choice?”

“Yeah, but such a nasty piece of alien tech can do a lot more things than just fly; most of them unpleasant. Some of then potentially deadly,” Ianto warned him.

“I know,” the prince lowered his voice. “You can’t wrap me in cotton wool, Mr Jones. I am who I am; but I’m also a career military. I’ll be careful, I promise.”

“I hope you will,” Ianto replied in an equally low voice. “I’d hate to have to tell Her Majesty that her grandson got eaten or blown up by some alien ship. I don’t think it would be good for my continued existence.”

“Well, we can’t have _that_ , can we?” Prince William squeezed his elbow. “I’ll hold back, honestly. I just want to see that ship from the inside. Even if I have to stand twenty yards away and use a spyglass.”

Ianto still wasn’t happy about the whole idea but he couldn’t really forbid the prince to go. So he agreed, albeit reluctantly, and asked Mickey to keep their royal guest safe.

“If you have to choose between him and the ship, blow up the ship,” he said seriously. "No matter what he says, his safety is absolutely paramount.”

Mickey nodded in understanding. “Don’t worry, boss. Not a single hair's gonna fall off his head in my care. I wouldn’t give his Gran any sorrow.”

With that, the Geek Team, consisting of two scientists, a self-made weapons expert and ex-freedom fighter and one royal prince, left to collect the Bruydac lifepod. Ianto sent a very unhappy Gwen to man the tourist office with a huge pile of unfinished paperwork to deal with, and then he turned to Sally.

“Ready to face the Archives?” Sally nodded eagerly. “Good. There are some warm sweaters in that locker; pull one over. It’s cold where we are going.”

o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o  
Sally didn’t have any previous expectations what the Archives of Torchwood Three would be. Based on the age of the base she assumed that they would be fairly large, but that was basically it. And Ianto had warned her that they would be cold, but that could be expected, as they were located in underground caverns.

The true dimensions began to dawn on her as they kept walking down a seemingly endless trail of tunnels, their heels rapping sharply against the concrete floor. The only other sound that could be heard was their harsh breathing in the chilly air that made her lungs burn.

“Now I understand why are you wearing these three-piece woollen suits all the time,” she commented.

“Actually, it has more to do with a proper fashion sense than with the temperature,” Ianto smiled and stopped in front of a large wooden door that looked really old yet was apparently sturdy and well-built.

The damp of the underground tunnels did not reach this area – Sally made a mental note to ask about the technology that kept all sensitive equipment safe – the wood was well-maintained and the thick bolts and hinges gleamed in the hash light of the halogen lamps like pure brass. The door looked like it belonged to a medieval dungeon and was in weird contrast to the high-tech control panel for entering the password and what Sally recognised from her UNIT days as a retinal and fingerprint scanner as well as a voice activated locking device.

The long line of archivists working for Torchwood Three, of which Ianto was only the last and current one, had clearly taken their job very seriously.

To Sally’s mild surprise he didn’t try to hide the data pad from her with his body while typing in the access code. Of course, as she was supposed to work here at least half the time it would have been a moot point anyway. The panel made no sound as Ianto punched in a series of numbers that seemed too bloody complicated for any normal person to remember. Which was perhaps the reason why he didn’t even try to conceal what he was doing, Sally decided, in serious concern how she’d ever manage to get into the Archives on her own.

Ianto then took a step back and turned his eye to the retinal scanner that swept his stormy blue-grey iris with a red light and finally pressed three of his fingers – the thumb, the index finger and the little finger – to the print scanner. Each fingerprint was clearly recognised, and a beep was emitted to signify the start of the voice recognition sequence. Ianto said something that Sally didn’t understand; but it sounded Welsh. There was another accepting beep, and the door swung open noiselessly.

“Are these security measures truly necessary?” Sally asked. “This place is sealed more tightly than Fort Knox.”

“What e keep here is potentially a lot more dangerous than Fort Knox,” Ianto replied. “We’ll add your pattern to the security system soon, so that you can come down and work without me present, if necessary. I just waned to give you the tour of a small section of A-Ad, just so that you get an idea what to expect.”

He made an inviting gesture and Sally entered the room carefully.

She as at once it by the stale, musty air that felt dry and brittle against her tongue; not surprisingly, as the Archives were clearly air locked. That was to be expected, considering that some of the files kept here were almost two hundred years old. For _a small section of A-Ad_ the room was of phenomenal length. It contained row after row of old wooden shelves that remembered her of that Oxford library she had visited a couple of years previously – or of the Hogwarts library as shown in the Harry Potter films. Each shelf was laden with files or metal boxes, stretching up to the vaulted ceiling.

Sally whistled. “Wow! Impressive! I thought you said the Archives were in a hopeless disarray.”

“Only the newer stuff; what came in after 2000,” Ianto explained. “All previous archivists took great pride in their work; just as I do.”

“And the ones after 2000?” Sally asked.

“There weren’t any archivists after 2000,” Ianto replied grimly. “Not until I came aboard. Jack never bothered with the Archives. He knew most of the relevant stuff from experience anyway, and he had no interest for the rest. Suzie and Tosh did some filing from time to time, but they rarely managed to do it properly. With such a small team, there was always something more important to do. And Owen’s always been a lazy git when it came to paperwork. I’ve been working on cleaning up their mess for the last year and a half, while dealing with all the new cases and playing butler and janitor for them. More often than not, I ran on three or four hours of sleep on a good day. And good days are something of a rarity at Torchwood Three.”

“You know. that doesn’t sound very encouraging,” Sally joked.

“I’m working on a more reasonable schedule,” Ianto replied. “You won’t have to do this alone, nor exclusively. We’re still understaffed like hell, but we’d work in shifts; in two shifts, for starters, with somebody spending the night and alert the others, should there be a Weevil sighting or a Rift alarm. It still won’t be easy. We have three more people than we used to, but replacing Jack will be a gargantuan task, even for three or four people. Both in knowledge _and_ in the 'won’t die, doesn’t need sleep' department,” he noticed Sally shivering with cold and smiled. “Come, let’s go back to the main Hub. I think you’ve seen enough for you first visit.”

Sally nodded. She was glad to return to the relative warmth of the main Hub, to the company of living, breathing people. She seriously doubted that she’d ever end up as Ianto’s worthy successor, but working in the Archives would be a real challenge.

She liked challenges. They kept her on her toes and her mind sharp. She decided that accepting the job offer from Torchwood Three had been a good idea, after all. Even if it meant leaving London.


	15. The Ship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The description of the Bruydac ship is based on the one in the novel “Another Life” by Peter Anghelides, with the necessary alterations. However, I took some creative liberty with the Bruydac themselves and their possible origins.
> 
>  **Warning:** There are some disturbing moments of violence in this chapter.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER 15 – THE SHIP**

The Geek Team – minus Mickey, who'd borrowed Ianto’s Audi to go to the warehouse for his truck – took the Torchwood SUV to return to the seedy alleyway in Splott. They found the police cordon still in place, with a few constables standing on watch, bored out of their heads. The ship itself couldn’t be seen from this distance.

One of the constables, a tall, blond, curly-haired young man, greeted Toshiko like an old friend… well, an acquaintance anyway. At least they called each other by name. Prince William recognized him as the PC that had driven the police van on the previous day.

“Good to see you again, Dr Sato; thanks for coming,” he and Tosh shook hands, and then the constable, whose name was apparently Andy, called out to his colleagues. “Hey, mates, you can leave now! The cavalry is here!”

“Took them long enough,” another constable, a tall, handsome, dark-skinned man groused. “We were here the whole night.”

“Be glad all we had to do was to watch the area, Bridges,” Andy replied. “I saw some of the shit they have to deal with and I wouldn’t want it for myself.”

Some of the other policemen nodded in agreement and left in obvious relief. They might not exactly know _what_ Torchwood was dealing with, but they were all sure that it was better that way.

So they were all more than happy to pack their stuff together and go off-duty. They might have spent the night watching an area where nothing interesting had happened, but at least they were safe – and could count on paid overtime. Which was better than nothing.

The retrieval team, in the meantime, had other problems to solve.

“How do you intend to get the alien lifepod on the truck?” Prince William asked. “We won’t be able to move it without a crane. Can your organize one?”

“Jonesy could, if we needed one,” Trevor replied with clearly unshakable confidence in Ianto’s skills. “But we’ll give the Magna-Clamps a try first.”

“The _what_?”

“These little beauties,” the engineer showed the prince a pair or rather unremarkable… _things_. “They Torchwood equivalents of Star Trek’s antigrav units; only that these are real. They cancel the mass of any object they’re attached to – with only one of them, hold in one hand, you can lift two Imperial tons.”

“Where are they from?” the prince asked, stunned.

“Torchwood London found them in a crashed spaceship at the foot in the Snowdon Mountain,” Tosh explained,” and we scavenged them after Canary Wharf. They’re quite useful.”

“You must have scavenged a great deal of stuff, if the complaints of UNIT afterwards are any indication,” the prince commented.

Tosh grinned. “Jack didn’t like the idea of Torchwood property getting in the wrong hands, so he came up from Cardiff as soon as possible to throw his weight around a little. Even so, UNIT got away with a lot of stuff they had no business to have, before his arrival. Neither of _us_ could tell them to go the hell, and I for myself wouldn’t even try.”

Prince William didn’t ask why. He had a fairly good idea.

In the meantime, Trevor and Mickey applied the Magna-Clamps to the outer hull of the alien ship and, to Prince William’s stunned disbelief, the four of them could actually lift the ship from the ground, despite it being the size of a double-decker bus, and maneuvre it onto Mickey’s truck. They then fastened it with some kind of magnetic lock, so that it wouldn’t move during transport and covered it with camouflage blankets.

“Don’t you remove the clamps?” Prince William asked.

Trevor shook his head. “Not, it’s safer so. I haven’t got a clue how heavy this thing really is, save that it must be less than four Imperial tons, or else the two clamps wouldn’t have lifted it. It might crash even such a huge truck without them, though.”

Mickey strolled around the truck, checking the seals and the camouflage and nodded in satisfaction before climbing up into the driver’s seat.

“Looks good,” he said. “Let’s hope everything holds out till we reach the hangar. I’m off now.”

“So are we,” Tosh replied. “Let’s get into the SUV. We’ll meet the others at the hangar.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
When they arrived in the spacious hangar/warehouse/parking lot/whatever – the same one into which Jack and Ianto had managed to lure Myfanwy and finally captured her more than a year ago – Owen and Lloyd were already waiting for them, full of professional curiosity. With the help of the Magna Clamps and a gable stapler that was parked in a corner for no obvious reason, they lifted the Bruydac ship from the truck and put it in the back of the hangar, so that if someone entered they wouldn’t spot it at once. Hopefully.

Owen walked around the ship with a frown. It was cylindrical, with short, pipe-like extensions – each with the diameter of the doorframe of a bus – sticking out of its hull one all sides, at regular intervals. Which was practical, as they kept the ship from rolling around. The pock-marked hull, made of some unknown metal – if it was a metal indeed – had a dull shine.

“This is not an escape pod,” Owen finally declared. “I was in one of those; that was no wider than three telephone boxes stacked side by side and barely enough for four moulded alcoves in the wall for the crew.”

“But it isn’t a battle cruiser, either,” Toshiko pointed out. “ _That_ was a lot bigger.”

“True,” Owen frowned. “A scout ship perhaps? Those pipes would allow it to dock in a much larger vessel, and the crew could simply walk through the airlocks, without having to crawl on all fours. I don’t think our red-eyed friend would be that big on crawling.”

“No,” Tosh agreed. “He’s too large and clumsy for that… assuming it _is_ a he.”

“Actually, it isn’t,” Owen told her. “According to what Jack said (unless he was pulling my leg, which I wouldn’t put beyond him), Bruydac warriors are gender-neutral. They are – or, at least, originally were – and aquatic species with a hive mind that procreate by asexual insemination… well, their females and the males do. The warriors themselves are simply drones. Cannon fodder.”

“That would explain the psychic abilities – and why other people would need the implants to be telepathically compatible,” Lloyd said thoughtfully; the fact that they were discussing the physiology of _aliens_ , the existence of which she would deny a day or two ago, didn’t seem to bother her at all. “Still doesn’t explain the starfish creatures, though.”

“The starfish are parasites, living in a symbiotic relationship with the Bruydac drones,” Owen explained. “When a victim gets implanted, the implant releases a starfish embryo into their system.”

“But what do the Bruydac need the starfish for?” asked Prince William, a little confused. “As a weapon?”

“More like a line of defence; and as guard dogs. As a food source, too; if put in water, they grow fast and become really big,” seeing the disgusted faces of the others, Owen shrugged. “There’s no discussing of culinary tastes. We ate calamari, too.”

“Never again,” muttered Lloyd; then she looked at Tosh. “Have you managed to open the ship?”

Tosh shook her head. ”No, which is why we called Owen in. He’s the only one who was in telepathic contact with the Bruydac last time, no matter how short a time it was. We hoped that he’d remember how to work the controls.”

“To be honest, I was doing my best to forget the whole affair,” Owen shuddered, but he stepped up to the sealed entrance door nonetheless.

Its outline was barely visible on the curving expanse of dull metal that was glinting with a soft inner glow, even in the semi-darkness of the hangar. Only the softly flickering set of controls marked its location.

Without conscious thinking, Owen’s hands flew to the controls, touching the multi-coloured glowing surface in a pattern he wasn’t even aware of knowing. With a hissing sound, the door slid open, allowing them a first glimpse of the interior of the vessel. Prince William felt the excitement grow within him. He was about to enter an alien ship! A real, honest alien ship! Whatever he’d promised Ianto, there was no way he’d keep his distance. This was a one-of-a-life chance, and he wouldn’t miss it, no matter the risks.

“Good work, Owen,” Tosh murmured.

“I haven’t got the foggiest _how_ I did it,” Owen admitted. “Suppressed memories, I guess.”

“Does it matter?” the prince asked. “You did it, and now we can go in. “He beamed at the doctor. “A real alien ship!”

“More like a death trap,” Tosh corrected. “These things are alive… sort of… so we need to be very careful. Owen and I are the only ones who’ve been in one of them already, so we’ll go first. Please, stay behind us, Lieutenant.”

“Actually, Gwen was in that ship, too,” Owen reminded her, grinning.

“You’re free to have her join us,” Tosh replied dryly.

Owen pulled a face. “In another life, perhaps. Let’s go in!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The inside of the ship was softly illuminated in a wide variety of green hues: moss and aquamarine and apple-green, and the walls seemed to ripple around them, like the water in some huge sea aquarium. Soft, sage-coloured fronds dangled from an arched ceiling. The dark green walls pulsed with the bright outlines of unknown symbols and images, and the prince slowed down in his progress, trying to figure out what they are.

“This is how the ship communicates with its crew,” Owen explained.

“Can you interpret them?”

“No; the Bruydac only shared a few necessary maneuvers with me, so that I’d be able to use the basic functions of the ship,” Owen looked at the fizzing row of brilliance that spread through the corridor at floor level like the runway like of an airport. “If I remember correctly, the central corridor would lead to the control room.”

“And what are these?” Mickey gestured at the dark shafts that punctuated the corridor walls, leading upwards and downwards, presumably to the other airlocks.

Owen shrugged. “Access tunnels of some sort, I presume. We’ll have to check them all for nasty surprises. I hope you’re well armed. If there’s another one of these drones, we’ll need the biggest calibres possible.”

Mickey nodded grimly. “Just lead the way, doc. I’ll have your back.”

Without a further word, Owen moved on along the corridor with a taser in his hand. After a short walk – a much shorter one than either he or Tosh could remember – they turned into the control room. This, too, was much smaller than the one of the battle cruiser less than a year ago, but looked basically identical.

There was none of the brilliance of the corridors, only a subdued background glow that seemed to come from the bulkheads themselves. Six scooped frames, each like an elongated letter J, were suspended by thick, olive-green tendrils from a darkened ceiling, like the egg pods of some underwater creature. Which, considered the aquatic origins of the Bruydac, actually made sense, the prince found. They all faced inward, building a circle, at the centre of which a pale cylinder rose that might have been a table, or a control panel, or a simple display. At the head of the circle was a closed cabinet made of some translucent green material that might have been jade, by the looks of it – or something completely different.

“Is this the implantation machine?” Prince William asked, with a mixture of disgust and fascination. Owen nodded.

“Yeah. The victims are placed in one of these frames, and the tendrils hanging from the frames press them in really tightly. Then the machine is activated from that central cylinder, and the control box is inserted into the victim’s spine. Attached to the spinal column, actually, quite near the top, between the vertebrae T3 and T4, just on one side.”

The prince shuddered. “It must be an unpleasant process.”

“Hurts like hell, and you pass out for a while when it’s finished,” Owen nodded in agreement. “But the worst thing is after a while you can literally feel the starfish creature growing within you. There’s the bubbling stir of rising gas, a stirring in your stomach. If you’re lucky, you can regurgitate it with one brief heave while it’s still tiny and spit it out. If not, it will eventually be exposed to enough oxygen via your bloodstream to begin secreting its digestive fluid and consumes you from the inside out.”

“Thanks, Harper, just what I needed before lunch,” Lloyd pulled a face and used her SOCO-issue torch to illuminate the room better. “What now?”

“We’ll check it there are other Bruydac in the ship still,” Tosh replied. “If memory serves me well, this closed cabinet is where the drone would sit while transferring its consciousness into one of its implanted hosts.”

“But haven’t we shot the guy yesterday?” Mickey asked in surprise. “Do you really think there will be another one? Possibly even more?”

“No idea,” Tosh confessed. “This ship is small, but still way too big for a single crewperson, I’d say. We haven’t found any corpses…”

“… so far,” Trevor finished with a grimace, and Owen nodded.

“True,” Tosh allowed. “But since the one we shot was moving around on the streets, we can safely assume that there ought to be at least another one, sitting in here, controlling the implanted humans.”

“I suppose we just have to check then,” Prince William suggested. “Do you know how to open the cabinet?”

Tosh shook her head. “I hoped Owen would know.”

“Yeah, no pressure at all,” Owen muttered darkly.

Nonetheless, he stepped closer to the cylindrical block in the middle of the circle. Closing his eyes in concentration, he allowed his fingers to dance deftly on the surface in a certain pattern, and the cylinder came to humming life. Its top spiralled apart like a time-lapse film of a flower head unfurling its petals. Two softly illuminated hemispherical panels unfolded from inside. The prince stretched his neck to get a better view of it above Toshiko’s head but couldn’t identify any switches or dials. All he could see were softly glowing patches of different colours.

“It should work now,” Owen said in a low voice.

He stepped away from the central panel, directly to the sealed cabinet. It glowed softly with an inner radiance. Its rich, translucent blue-green surface had a glowy lustre, like certain Chinese ornaments. Owen slid his hands over the front of the cabinet in a manner that seemed oddly gentle. There was no audible click or any other sign of an opening, but as soon as he touched the surface, the front of the cage split in two, with the hissing sound of a vacuum release, and peeled backwards.

“And here it is,” Mickey commented grimly.

Indeed, another Bruydac warrior was sitting in the caged frame, curled up like a monstrously large foetus, its knees pulled up and its long, filthy claws clutched near its chest. Like the other one they’d neutralised in the alleyway, it had a thorny cranial ridge that began at the flat of its nose and continued over the back of the skull. Its mouth was a half-open, lipless gash in the bottom of its flat, triangular face, revealing a double row of razor-sharp, saw-like teeth as it sucked in the stale air with shallow breaths. By doing so, a quill-like organ opened and closed slowly on either side of its thick, almost nonexistent neck.

It had a marked resemblance to a bipedal shark, actually, only with arms instead of fins.

Beneath its heavy, closed lids, its eyes were moving rapidly, as though it was dreaming. Tubing and wires were connected from its scarred torso into flickering shapes of light in the side of the cage.

“This is not good,” Owen said, murmuring something unintelligible; by the sound of it they were better off not understanding it. “The guy’s clearly injured and has transferred its consciousness to a human host. See the eye movements? It almost looks like REM-sleep. It’s still in control of some poor bastard out there.”

“You mean one of the homeless people we’ve got in the Hub in quarantine could be implanted?” asked Trevor.

“Unlikely,” Owen replied. “We examined them with the Bekaran deep-tissue scanner; if they had an implant, we’d have found it.”

“There are still those two implanted ones in the cells,” Lloyd reminded him.

“Those can’t get out without outside help,” Tosh reassured her. “That’s why we’ve put each into its individual cell. If another host is still moving free, though, then we’ve got a problem. They’re all ticking time bombs; and to find an unknown one on the streets before they could attack and kill someone else is near impossible.”

“We must warn Jonesy,” Trevor said.

Tosh shook her head. “Unless there’s been a Weevil alert, he’s down in the Archives with Sally. There’s no signal down there; only the intercom system works. We’ll have to call Gwen in the tourist office and have her contact them and check on the prisoners.”

“Good luck with _that_ ,” Owen commented sarcastically. “By our luck, she’s on the phone with Rhys and won’t even pick up our call.”

“What if we destroyed the controls?” the prince suggested. “Wouldn’t that break the connection?”

“Hardly,” Tosh replied. “It’s a psychic bond that exists without the help of any machines… well, save for the implants, of course.”

“Then we must kill the alien itself,” Prince William said, with just a hint of regret.

“Oh, we _will_ , believe me,” Owen answered with cold determination. “Problem is, as long as it has at least one host body left, it won’t die; not really. If it has more, that’s even worse, cos it can switch from one host to another at will, as long as they’re conscious. And the host under its influence would do everything to get back to this ship.”

“Not to mention the dead bodies in their wake,” Tosh added. “We’ll have to hunt down and capture every host after we’ve destroyed the Bruydac; the implants _can_ be removed surgically, once the connection is broken.”

“It’s a relief that we won’t have to kill our own people,” Prince William said. “But how do you intend to kill the alien? Electrocuting it might be risky; an organic ship could lead electricity very well.”

“Plus, electrocuting would only knock it out temporarily,” Mickey produced a slender metallic tube that looked suspiciously like a Minbari fighting pike from Babylon 5 in its collapsed state. “We’ll take this.”

“And what _is_ this exactly?” inquired the prince.

“A Jamolean lance,” Tosh explained. “Well, more like an energy weapon, really. It has a rechargeable power pack for mobility and works more like a gun than an actual lance. It produces an exothermic reaction that increases the temperatures to fatal level.”

“She means that it’ll burn the foe to ashes,” Mickey explained helpfully.

“Thank you, I’ve come so far on my own,” replied the prince dryly. “But seeing that this is an organic ship, more or less, wouldn’t the weapon destroy the rest of it in the process?”

“That would be a shame,” Trevor agreed. “But not even half as much as letting this guy turn ordinary humans into zombies would be.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Mickey said cheerfully. “You have to thrust up the barrel of this thing really close to the target before you pull the trigger, like a close range rifle. There’s little chance of anything else to get damaged. Look at this!”

With that, he thrust end of the metal tube close the chest of the alien, just above the folded claws, and activated it. The lance began to glow; they could practically see the white-hot energy crackle between the barrel and the grey, rubbery skin of the creature. The Bruydac’s eyes snapped open, red and wide and appalled. Its arm jerked out in an uncontrolled gesture, flailing wildly and tearing the cage apart as its body was practically dissolving into ash in the heat.

Mickey kept firing at it steadily, until its torso simply burned away, leaving nothing behind but four still twitching limbs, a half-dissolved skull and a horrible stench.

“Well, that was disgusting,” the ex-freedom-fighter declared. “Do you want what’s left of it, Owen, or is the guy lying frozen in the Vaults enough for you to play with?”

“We should conserve the limbs, for studying the biochemistry and the cell structure of the species,” Lloyd suggested. “They’ll be much easier to handle than the full specimen, and there won’t be any moral considerations.”

“Be my guest,” Owen muttered, a little green around the gills. He’d seen a lot in his years with Torchwood and wasn’t easily shocked anymore, but this… this was _personal _. “I won’t touch that… _thing_ with a ten-foot-pole!”__

__“No problem,” Lloyd brought a body bag from the boot of the SUV. “I’ll do it.”_ _

__She’d seen worse in her years with SOCO._ _

__“And I’ll call Gwen and ask her to check on the quarantined people,” Tosh added. “Perhaps we’ll be lucky and she answers the phone.”_ _

__Five minutes later it turned out that they weren’t lucky, after all. Neither Gwen in the tourist office nor anyone else in the main Hub answered the phone. Tosh and Owen exchanged worried looks._ _

__“I don’t like it,” Tosh said. “Gwen isn’t speaking with anyone on her mobile, and the landlines are free, too.”_ _

__“Let’s go back,” Owen agreed._ _

__“But we can’t leave the ship unwatched,” Tosh protested._ _

__“Speckles and I can stay,” Mickey offered. “We’ve worked together briefly at One; we can do so again.”_ _

__“We won’t touch a thing, I swear,” Trevor added. “But documenting the ship’s interior and those signs and symbols the walls in the corridor show us might be useful.”_ _

__“All right,” Tosh said. “But if you feel threatened, just shoot whatever it is, be it machines, tentacles or starfish. No new discovery is worth your lives.”_ _

__“Oh, don’t worry,” Mickey answered her, grabbing the Jamolean lance in grim determination. “I’ve got my priorities well set.”_ _

__“Good,” Tosh said- “Let’s go then. I’ve got a really bad feeling about this.”_ _

__* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Gwen was, quite frankly, bored out of her head. The accumulated paperwork on her desk seemed to have no end, and there was simply _nothing_ to do in the dratted tourist office. Especially as she’d forgotten her mobile phone in the main Hub and couldn’t even call Rhys. Or one of her friends._ _

__The only source of distraction was the security screen in the small kitchenette, behind the bead curtain, but even that didn’t show the inside of the Hub, so that she could have watched what Ianto was up to, just the Plass before them and the cells._ _

__Not that there would have been any security cameras in Ianto’s precious Archives to begin with; which, in Gwen’s opinion, was a dangerous oversight. There was a great deal of dangerous stuff stored in the Archives, wasn’t there? So, why wouldn’t one want to check what the archivist – any archivist! – was doing with them?_ _

__The cells didn’t offer much distraction, either, despite the implanted young woman in one of them and the other homeless people in the quarantine. They weren’t more interesting to watch than the average Weevil, and Weevils were a deadly boring bunch anyway. Most of the quarantined people were sleeping, and the young woman seemed unconscious._ _

__She, too, had tried to break out of his restraints (just like the old man who’d died), regardless of the damage she’d caused herself in the process. One of her arms was strangely limp; the jagged ends of a broken forearm bone had pierced her skin and peeked out through the wound. It was a sickening sight._ _

__She was no longer moving, though, so Gwen decided to check on her, since nobody else seemed to care whether she was still alive, which was simply _wrong_. Yes, these people weren’t themselves as long as the implant was still active, but they hadn’t _asked_ for it to happen. They deserved to be treated more humane. Especially Owen, who’d had one of those devices plunged into his spine less than a year ago, should have been more sympathetic… weren’t he such a bloody jerk!_ _

__Since opening the door that led to the Hub automatically sealed that of the tourist office, Gwen didn’t bother locking the latter properly. She stepped into the tunnel-like corridor, jogged down to the internal lift and rode it to the sublevel where the cells were located._ _

__The deep, mournful howls of the Weevils greeted her as she stepped out into the corridor. Janet especially seemed in a bad shape, curled up in the furthest corner of her cell, pressing her hideous visage to her pulled-up knees. That was a bad sign. Weevils had a peculiar sensitivity for the presence of other, more dangerous aliens._ _

__Gwen approached the cell of the implanted young woman warily – realising that she was dead. She’d managed to free herself from the restrains by breaking the one arm and using it to open the other cuffs, despite the pain, but then it must have proved too much for her heart._ _

__Gwen carefully checked the cell floor for any of those starfish creatures but couldn’t find any. So she deactivated the seal on he cell door and entered to check the young woman’s pulse. She found none. So, either the Bruydac had already switched its consciousness to another host, one that was still on the run somewhere out there, or it was dead. Irreversibly._ _

__The young woman looked fairly dead, too, her skin having already achieved a ghastly grey colour that did in no way conceal the dark rings under her eyes. Plus, she wasn’t breathing anymore._ _

__It was a pity, really. She must have been very pretty once – a slim, dark-haired, fair-skinned Welshwoman, a bit like Gwen herself – before living on the street, the drugs and probably alcohol, too, would ruin her. She couldn’t have been older than Gwen… perhaps even a few years younger. The hollow cheeks, brittle hair and emaciated body made it hard to guess her age correctly._ _

__Oh, they’d make a half-arsed effort to identify her, but there was a chance she wasn’t in the system… unless she’d been caught shoplifting or something like that. And if she didn’t have a family to claim her, which was highly likely, she’d end up in a freezer in the Vaults – until Torchwood needed a corpse to conceal some other, suspicious health._ _

__It was not _right_. But it was the way things were done at Torchwood, and Gwen couldn’t change it. Not now that Ianto had nailed the job that, by right, should have been hers._ _

__Things would be even worse in the future, she was sure about that. Ianto was One, after all, and Jack had told Gwen often enough how ruthless and inhuman the practices at One had been. There had been a reason why he’d severed ties with Headquarters completely, as soon as he’d taken over the Cardiff branch._ _

__Still, Gwen couldn’t confront Ianto about such a small thing as the fate of a dead vagrant. Not yet. Not before she’d found supporters, higher up, which she needed to do fast. Fortunately, she still had some contacts in the City Hall._ _

__She turned around to leave the cell, so she didn’t see when the presumably dead woman’s eyes snapped open, burning with unnatural brightness. Then there was a searing pain in her head and everything went dark._ _


	16. The Hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The actual layout of the Hub is still very much a matter of perspective, so do forgive me any mistakes in that area. The part about the Bruydac stealth technology is taken from the novel “Another Life” by Peter Anghelides, with small modifications.
> 
> **Warning:** There are some disturbing moments of violence in this chapter.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER 16**

Sally and Ianto emerged from the Archives to the sound of the landline in Jack’s – well, now _Ianto’s_ – office ringing frantically. Ianto raised an eyebrow in surprise and answered it in his usual calm manner.

“Torchwood.”

“Ianto, thank God!’ it was Tosh, and she sounded worried; which, in exchange made _Ianto_ worried. As a rule, she wasn’t prone to panic. “We’ve been trying to reach you for at least half an hour, but…”

“I was in the Archives with Sally,” Ianto reminded her. “Why didn’t you call Gwen?”

“I tried,” Tosh replied. “She doesn’t answer the phone.”

“Not surprising,” Sally commented when Ianto explained the problem to her. “She left her mobile phone on her desk.”

“Yeah, but I called the landline in the tourist office, and she doesn’t answer _that_ , either,” Tosh said, having overheard the comment. “Ianto, I’m getting a bad feeling about this.”

“So am I,” Ianto admitted. “Where are you?”

“Twenty minutes from the Hub, tops,” she replied. “Bringing Owen, Lloyd and the lieutenant with me; the others stayed to keep an eye on that ship, just in case.”

“Good,” Ianto said. “I’d like to avoid putting the Hub on lockdown; that would mean we couldn’t get out – or _you_ in – for twenty-four hours.”

“Which would be impractical, in case there’s another implanted host running free somewhere outside,” Tosh finished for him. “You’ll have to physically seal the door of the tourist office. We’ll come in via invisible lift. And Ianto, don’t split up! You’ll have a better chance when you watch each other’s back.”

“I know, Mam,” Ianto replied with a tolerant smile. Neither Tosh, nor Owen had fully realised yet that even as a junior researcher, he’d received a thorough field training at One. “You’re the one at serious risk if you allow Owen to drive.”

“Very funny,” Tosh said dryly. “But actually, Lloyd is the one driving. Oh, and by the way, the remote for the I-lift you’ve asked for? It’s ready and working. It’s that oval-shaped thing next to the phone. You might want to pocket it before anyone else does. See you in approximately fifteen minutes.”

With that she hung up. Ianto found the gizmo she’d mentioned on his – _Jack’s_ – desk (which really needed a complete reorganising, as soon as he could find a moment) and weighed it in his palm with interest. He figured out the function of the controls easily enough. Tosh was truly a genius with technical stuff. 

The thing even had a minimalised fingerprint scanner, so that no unauthorised personnel could use it. The fingerprints of the entire Torchwood team – minus those of Gwen, who was still on probation – were already stored in its memory. Now they could operate the invisible lift without the help of Mainframe… or Jack’s wrist strap, which was no longer available.

“What now?” Sally asked.

Ianto pocketed the remote. “Now we use the I-lift to get out and lock the door of the tourist office. Then we come back and start a search for Gwen with the help of our security network; that will give you the chance to learn how it works. Hopefully, the others will arrive in the meantime.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Less than six minutes later they were back in the main Hub, Sally sitting at Toshiko’s desk and Ianto standing at a distance where he could still see the flat-panel screens flickering in front of her eyes, displaying the results of their search around the Hub for Gwen’s lifesigns. He stood with his back protected by the wall, holding a taser at its highest setting ready, to protect Sally who was a bit too exposed in the centre of the working area for his comfort.

They couldn’t be _sure_ that anything was wrong, of course. Gwen could simply have been bored and wandered off. It was known to have happened before. But Ianto was not taking any risks. He had the bad feeling that this would be more than just the usual lack of reliability from Gwen’s side.

“Ianto,” Sally interrupted his thoughts. “I’ve found her.”

“Where?” Ianto asked.

Sally pointed at one of the screens that showed the sublevel with the prison cells.

“Down at the cells. But why would she have gone there?”

“”With Gwen, it’s sometimes hard to tell,” Ianto followed her finger with his eyes but all he could see was a shapeless lump on the hard concrete floor. “Is she alive?”

“Yep; and relatively unharmed, too,” Sally zoomed on to Gwen’s unconscious form. “Knocked out cold, I’d say.”

“By whom?”

“By whoever was in that cell,” Sally manipulated the security camera to make an almost three hundred and sixty degree rotation and came up with… nothing. “They’re gone, I’m afraid.”

Ianto closed his eyes for a moment to keep his temper under control. Losing it wouldn’t help things at the moment… or later. 

“Terrific! We capture the implanted host and shut her safely away. Then Little Miss Sensitive has nothing better to do than go down to her cell and let her loose again. Will the bloody woman never _learn_?”

“But that girl was injured and sedated, wasn’t she?” Sally asked in surprise.

Ianto sighed. “That doesn’t matter. Under the influence of the Bruydac she could have made her move, despite her physical weakness. Check the quarantine area. If she’s bolted, she’ll need sustenance, and I’m afraid that means we’ll have further casualties.”

Sally switched to the other cameras, the ones watching the quarantine area one level higher… and found one of the cells open. These were just a tad more comfortable than the ones below, with a proper cot, a small table and a chair and a washbasin and a toiled behind a screen, but that didn’t help the occupant one bit.

She – a middle-aged, filthy woman, wearing clothes several sizes bigger than her own – was sprawled on the concrete floor. The side and the rear of her neck had been ripped open, exposing the spinal cord, and blood had spurted all over the concrete around her.

“Ah, bloody hell,” Ianto said resignedly.

“What are we supposed to do now?” Sally asked. “We can’t leave the other people in those cells to be murdered one by one. _Or_ Gwen, for that matter.”

“I know; although in _her_ case I’m seriously tempted,” Ianto replied. “She’s a walking disaster, really. She couldn’t just stay in the sodding tourist office as she was told, dealing with her long overdue paperwork. She must always mess with things that aren’t her business, and then we have to clean up her mess.”

“Why don’t you simply fire her and Retcon her back to her diapers?” Sally asked. 

Ianto sighed. “I’d like to, believe me! I’d like nothing more than that. But Jack gave me a chance when _I_ messed up badly enough that it would have justified an immediate execution, and I feel that I ought to be generous, too.”

“For how long?” Sally asked bluntly. “How many times is she allowed to fuck up? How many more people have to die? I understand where you come from, Ianto, I really do. But I’ve read her file; not the official one from Torchwood, the one that had been made for Commodore Sullivan. She’s been allowed to get away with too much already. I know that wasn’t your fault, but a line must be drawn eventually – for the safety of us all.”

‘I know,’ Ianto said grimly. “I’ll do it, eventually. Let us deal with the current crisis first, though… that will be enough for one day.”

“True,” Sally allowed. “What next? Are we waiting for the others or are we going to look for her right away? Both choices do have their risks; and not exactly small ones.”

Ianto nodded in agreement. If they waited for the others, the host could go on a rampant killing spree. Previous experience with implanted Bruydac hosts showed that the hunger for spinal fluid grew exponentially. The more they got, the worse the craving would become.

Like with a drug addiction, really. Only that the process was much shorter and the outcome a great deal bloodier. For both the addict _and_ the victims.

On the other hand, if they started the search without backup, they could easily walk into a trap and be killed. No-one knew the vast, maze-like underbelly of the Hub like Ianto, but even he wouldn’t be able to navigate them safely with a crazed addict, steered by the uprooted consciousness of a dead alien, on the loose.

There were simply too many opportunities to get trapped.

“We’ll have to split up,” he finally decided. “I can’t leave those people in the quarantine cells to be slaughtered, one by one. I’ll have to bring them up here. You go to Jacks office, seal the door and keep scanning the Hub from there. See if you can find the host. Take a taser with you, just in case.”

“That’s a very bad idea,” Sally said.

“I know,” Ianto agreed. “Do you have a better one? I’m open to suggestions.”

And he meant it, too. He’d listen to anything she might have to say. But she just shook her head, unhappily. Ianto handed her the remote.

“Let the others in when they arrive… and stay in contact through your earpiece.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
There was nothing else either of them could have said. Ianto showed her how to relay the search programme into Jack’s office, and Sally sealed the unbreakable glass door behind herself. Running the search from Jack’s – well, actually _Ianto’s_ – office, with its single screen, would be a lot more complicated than from Tosh’s workplace, but at least she’d be reasonably safe in there.

The same couldn’t be said from Ianto, who was about to go down and probably face somebody possessed by a murderous alien on his own. But that was Torchwood for you; at least at Torchwood Three, agents rarely died from old age. And he’d already cheated death twice. He could only hope his luck would hold for a third time.

He wished there had been something he could wear to protect his neck, but save for the helmets and iron collars of medieval knights – which were _not_ kept in the Archives, unfortunately – nobody would have really helped. So he just shrugged and began his careful descent to the quarantine area, mentally arranging his to-do list in order of importance.

The first order of the day was to let the people out of their rooms and send them up to the main Hub. Then he’d shut Gwen into the cell from where the host had escaped, for her own safety. He couldn’t afford to drag her unconscious body up to the med bay; the whole mess was her fault, so she’d have to wait. She could call herself lucky that the host hadn’t killed her on the spot.

Actually, Ianto was surprised about that. Granted, the host – and the Bruydac – couldn’t absorb Gwen’s (admittedly limited) knowledge about the Hub’s lower levels by simply chewing out her neck, but she was food for them… in a manner of speaking. So why leaving her untouched and taking the additional risk of going up one level, to the quarantined people, and attack _them_?

Ianto’s best theory was that – with the actual body of the Bruydac dead, or at least almost dead and frozen solid – its control over the host was a bit shaky. Perhaps the girl had had a free moment when Gwen opened the door of her cell, for whatever stupid reason, and her first instinct had been to flee to her own people… only to turn on them as soon as the control had been re-established.

If that was so, she’d be crushed to learn she’d killed one of her own, should it be able to free her from the control box at all.

Which still didn’t explain how could she know where the others were kept. But perhaps she’d overheard something when they’d been brought in. Both she and the other host, the old man who’d died already, had been heavily sedated, but there was no way to tell how much they’d been aware of their surroundings nonetheless.

In any case, the Bruydac control seemed to be far from perfect, which meant the host would move mostly on instinct. Which, in turn, gave Ianto a fairly good idea where she would be heading. She’d go to the Vaults. The Bruydac would try to reunite its consciousness with its body. Even wounded and battered, it was physically much stronger than a human. In its true body, it would have a better chance to get back to its ship.

That the ship had been moved in the meantime didn’t matter. Bruydac ships were semi-sentient and could keep psychic contact to their crew over great distances. Assuming that the Bruydac could stay alive, despite the damage it had suffered and despite having been put into a freezer unit, it _would_ find the ship, eventually.

It would be only a matter of time.

Which, again, meant that Ianto had to use every means at his disposal to prevent the reunion of body and consciousness.

He hoped that the security measures would be efficient enough to keep the girl out of the Vaults and he wouldn’t have to kill her. It wasn’t her fault, and he wasn’t a killer. But he would do it, if there was no other choice. She was beyond saving, most likely; and he couldn’t allow her to escape and spread the alien terror all across Cardiff.

It was depressingly similar to the situation with cyber!Lisa, really. But Ianto would deal with it – with _her_ – this time, just as Jack and the others had dealt with the monster his sweet, brilliant Lisa had become. And, as always, innocent people would die. Had died already. This was Torchwood at its dirtiest; but it had to be done.

He had the responsibility for Torchwood, for the whole city now. He couldn’t afford to be considerate. And he _hated_ it.

He shook his head to regain his focus. Allowing himself to be distracted by guilt would be deadly while hunting down the poor girl hosting the murderous alien. He was on his own until the others arrived… and, given the size of the Hub and its underground maze, that promised to be difficult, to say the least. Even for the whole team working together; and he didn’t _have_ the whole team at his disposal right now.

The first step was to limit the number of the girl’s – the _Bruydac’s_ – potential escape routes. Ianto accessed Mainframe via Tosh’s terminal and asked her to block the internal lift and every single computer-controlled security door between the Vaults and the main Hub. That meant the doors could only be opened manually, with the help of his key card. 

That still left sheer endless lengths of branching and meandering tunnels in which he could possibly be assaulted and killed, though.

“Okay, Sally,” he said. “I’m going down now and try to get the people out of the quarantine cells. When the others arrive, tell them to go to the Vaults. The host will try to reach the cryogenic units to free the Bruydac.”

“Can she do that?” came Sally’s tinny voice through his earpiece.

“Doubtful,” she replied. “But we can’t be certain, and better safe than sorry. Besides, she _will_ give it a try. That’s the place we can most likely find her. Keep the connection open. I’m on my way now.”

“Be careful,” she answered simply.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Ianto had armed himself in advance with a taser and with the special Torchwood-issue handgun. The latter was recoilless: a neat feat of alien technology applied to a standard Army-issue weapon, which made its aim true, even in a one-handed grip… which was important, since he most likely would need one hand for other purposes. It was practically idiot proof. He just hoped that his reflexes would be fast enough to use it in time.

He had the advantage of having a detailed visual map of the Hub in his head, of course, while the host didn’t. Photographic memory could come in handy in such times. In other times, when the data overload might have proved a distraction, he dealt with it by keeping everything firmly tucked away in their places in the tightly organised library that was his mind.

Without the _method of loci_ , learned during his special training at One, he’d have long gone mad from the overload.

He carefully descended the metal staircase to the level of the cells first. Keeping his back to the wall and with the taser in his left hand, he approached the slumped form of Gwen on the floor. Crouching down, with his eyes kept on his surrounding, he felt for the pulse in her neck with his free hand. He found it a little weak but steady; she was clearly just unconscious. The lump on the back of her head fit that diagnosis.

Ianto stood and nudged her arm, which hung out into the corridor, back inside the cell with the toe of his shoe, and then he used his key card to seal the door again. For the time being she’d be safe in there. They’d come back for her when things had been dealt with.

In the cell next door Janet was still curled up in the furthest corner, moaning quietly. It was an eerie, deeply sad sound. Ianto gave the obviously frightened Weevil an encouraging smile; although, if he was honest with himself, a frightened Weevil was never a good sign. They weren’t easily scared, being creatures of low intelligence and a high aggression level.

“No worries, girl,” he said in Welsh; for some reason the language always calmed Janet down. “Just business as usual at Torchwood. We’ll sort it out.”

Janet gave no sign that she’d understood him but that wasn’t surprising. None of the Weevils had ever given any sign of understanding English… or any other human language, for that matter. Ianto smiled at her one more time, as one would smile at a bad-tempered dog one had grown fond of nonetheless and scanned the tunnel carefully before climbing the staircase that led one level higher.

The homeless people in the quarantine cells were understandably out of their minds with fear. Some of them were hammering the door of their cells, others were lying on their bed apathetically, as if they’d already given up and were just waiting when their turn to die would come. One of they younger women was crying. When they spotted Ianto, however, most of them hurried to the transparent doors and pressed up against them.

“Let us out!” demanded a middle-aged man who went by the name of Smokey among the others. 

His teeth and fingers were yellowed by the excessive nicotine consuming, which had most likely given him the nickname in the first place. He was twitchy and full of aggression at the moment; Ianto assumed that it wasn’t just a fear. Nicotine withdrawal must have reached dangerous levels during the recent hours. Still, he seemed focused and sharp and managed to control the worst symptoms.

“Let us out!” he repeated. “We’re not safe here. Or do you want to let us all slaughtered by that… that _thing_?”

The young woman stopped crying and gave him a baleful look; as their cells were on the opposite sides of the corridor, she could actually do so.

“Don’t call Betty a _thing_!” she hissed. “She’s one of us!”

“ _Was_ ,” Smokey corrected darkly. “She _was_ one of us. She ain’t the Betty we knew anymore. She’s possessed by a demon.”

“Don’t be daft!” an old man with a bald, tattooed head and a filthy grey beard snorted. “There ain’t such thing as demons… save in your booze-clouded mind. Or in those stupid Omen films where that girl pukes pea soup.”

“Oh, she _is_ possessed all right… well, sort of,” Ianto said calmly and began to open the cell doors. “Come with me. I’ll take you upstairs.”

“Are we gonna safe there?” they young woman who’d cried asked.

“I’m not sure,” Ianto replied with brutal honesty. “But you’ll at least have the safety of numbers, until we can find this Betty and deal with her.”

“You mean _kill_ her, don’t ya?” Smokey demanded aggressively.

“Not if we can prevent it,” Ianto let him out, too. “We might not have a choice, though. She’s very dangerous. You’ve all seen what she’s capable of.”

Smokey glanced at the bloody remains of the woman murdered by Betty and his face darkened.

“What happened to her?” the old man with the beard asked. “Betty, I mean. She was such a shy, quiet girl. She wouldn’t swat a fly – and now this.”

“An infection of some sort,” Ianto explained smoothly. “She’s not responsible for what she’s doing. But that doesn’t make her any less dangerous.”

“Is this the same thing that happened less than a year ago?” at Ianto’s surprised look Smokey snorted. “You don’t really believe you could sell us the stupid story about the rabies, do you? I used to be a doctor before… well, _before_. I worked in a small hospital specialised for epidemics in London. I recognise the rabies when I see them; this, sure as hell, is something different.”

“It is,” Ianto admitted. “Something we can’t deal with, other than by isolating the affected people and watching them, in the hope that we’ll find something that actually might help.”

“And have you?” Smokey asked in suspicion.

Ianto shook his head ruefully. “None so far. We’ve lost a dozen or so people during the first outbreak, but when the last patient died, it just… stopped.”

“Not for good, though, it seems,” Smokey commented grimly.

“No,” Ianto agreed. “That’s the thing with epidemics: you never truly beat them. They may go dormant for a year or a decade… or even a couple of centuries. But sooner or later, they’ll resurface, and the whole misery starts anew.”

“So, Torchwood is dealing with epidemics now?” Smokey sounded more than a little doubtful, and Ianto couldn’t really blame him for that. Epidemics didn’t truly fit the profile of Special Ops, what most people still believed Torchwood to be.

“No,” he said. “We deal with the consequences: the fallout, the unpredictable danger. Science labs like the ones in Baskerville deal with the epidemics themselves.”

He could afford to say so much. Baskerville was a myth, a decoy that the government used to steer the common interest _away_ from the actual secret projects, and Torchwood often did the same. Well… _Torchwood London_ had done. And it worked like a charm, every time. People _loved_ conspiracy theories about mad scientists and always readily believed that the government was evil and corrupt.

Why they’d vote for the same government in the first place Ianto couldn’t understand, and he’d given up even trying.

“This staircase leads up to our main working area,” he explained instead. “It’s a bit on the open side, I’m afraid, but if you go the med bay you’ll be reasonably safe… I hope. Small it may be, but you can be together, and even sit on the bed or whatever. I’m sure you’ll recognise it,” he looked at Smokey, who nodded and started to climb the stairs.

The others followed with more reluctance, doing their best to avoid even the shortest glance at their slaughtered friend whose name Ianto still didn’t know.

Oh, they would run a background check; both on her and on the girl called Betty… even on the old man, the other host who’d died previously. But the fact that they all lived on the street meant either that they didn’t have any families left, or that the family didn’t want them. That somebody would want the bodies (or what was left of them) seemed unlikely. So they’d end up in Torchwood’s body storage for future use.

It wasn’t fair; nor was it particularly humane. But it was necessary, and Ianto couldn’t afford to be queasy.

_Torchwood_ couldn’t afford to be queasy.

He still hated it, though.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
His earpiece came alive, startling him out of his dark thoughts.

“Your patients arrived safely,” Sally told him. “And the SUV has just pulled up in front of the Hub.”

“Good,” Ianto breathed through deeply in relief. “Any sign of our host?”

“No; but we don’t have any security cameras below the sublevel with the cells, as you know. Perhaps we should reconsider the practice.”

“Won’t go; too much highly confidential and potentially dangerous stuff down there,” Ianto said. “Tell the others to meet me at the cryogenic units, but keep somebody up there to protect the patients. Just in case.”

“Got it,” and with that, the connection broke.

There were several ways leading to the cryogenic units. One went down directly from the main Hub and included the use of the internal lift. This was the shortest and fasted way. Granted, Ianto had blocked the lift, but Tosh could easily restart it… though she likely wouldn’t. She was an experienced field agent who knew the risks – and the necessity of containing a potentially hostile alien.

Ianto himself chose one of the original maintenance tunnels, now mostly unused even by Torchwood personnel, to get down from the quarantine level to the Vaults. These tunnels had heavy metal doors that still worked with simple mechanic locks and were not integrated in the CCTV system. That fact had enabled Ianto in the not too distant past to smuggle the half-converted Lisa, together with the modified conversion unit, into the Hub unseen and to visit her regularly, without showing up on any of the security screens.

The Vaults with the cryogenic units were an eerie place. Even Ianto, who came down here more often than anyone else of the team, couldn’t suppress the cold shiver that went down his spine whenever he had something to do there. The thought of being surrounded not only by their dead colleagues from earlier times but also by dangerous aliens, some of them were still alive… sort of… some for a century or so, some placed there more recently, was not a pleasant one. 

Ianto had already checked most of the units since joining Torchwood Three, but there was still quite a few that were still just numbers and symbols, even for him. That was another thing he didn’t like. Not knowing things made him uncomfortable.

He knew all too well, however, where the Bruydac warrior had been put, as it had happened recently, and he remembered _everything_ that had been done during _his_ time with Torchwood Three. The section where the (mostly) living aliens were frozen was located in a side corridor, protected by additional security measures, like the ones at the entrance of the Archives. Which meant that with his mere presence Ianto was actually baiting the host, who’d need _his_ retina-, voice- and fingerprints to be able to open the Vaults.

To a certain extent that would guarantee that he wouldn’t be killed immediately. A dead man couldn’t speak into the voiceprint scanner, after all. But that didn’t mean that he’d _survive_ a moment longer than he was needed.

He held the taser, set at maximum, ready, as he was approaching the junction that led to the high security Vaults. Torchwood’s previous encounter with the Bruydac race had taught them all _not_ to be fooled by the seemingly fragile appearance of a human host; of any human host. Under the influence of the Bruydac consciousness, even an emaciated girl like Betty could have easily killed a professional Sumo wrestler with her bare hands.

A barely audible noise, like a quiet shuffle of feet, alerted him to the approach of Betty. He whirled around and stared with narrowed eyes at the tall, willowy young woman in the tattered clothes who was coming up to him with strangely disjointed steps – like a puppet, pulled on strings. Her cheeks were sunken, her eyes unnaturally large in her shallow face, her mouth smeared with dried blood. It was a ghastly sight that would have made most people freeze.

Ianto Jones, however, was not _most people_. He’d faced Daleks and Cybermen at Canary Wharf, been killed by his own converted girlfriend, almost eaten by cannibals; and he hunted Weevils on a regular basis. He was no longer frightened by human beings possessed by aliens – and he could no longer be lured into mistaken compassion that would cause the death of his entire team.

He had the responsibility for Torchwood now. He could no longer afford to be sentimental.

“Not a step closer, Betty,” he said in a low, even voice. “I don’t _want_ to shoot you; but I _will_ , if I have to.”

Betty stared at him without blinking. Her whole posture made her look exhausted, like she was ready to drop in front of him. But her eyes were different. They were alive, glittering with malevolent intelligence, and in the dim light of the tunnel her expression was cold and determined.

“Open the doors,” she said. The effort of speaking visibly racked her, and she limped a bit as she came closer. “I need to go back to my ship.”

Ianto shook his head. 

“I’m sorry but I can’t do that,” he replied. “We’ve confiscated your ship; and besides, you’re too dangerous to let loose on this unsuspecting planet. Your private little invasion is not wanted here.”

She pretended not to understand what he was saying.

“Invasion?” she repeated, her voice rasping. “Ridiculous. All I want is to get home.”

“No,” Ianto said. “Don’t bother. This isn’t the first time that we’ve met your species. We know how the Bruydac stealth technology allows you to use the captured inhabitants of any planet you invade. That by possessing your prisoners with the help of the control box you can infiltrate the native population in perfect disguise. We know that when you’ve finished with each person, you can release them wherever you are and return your consciousness back to your true form – or to another person.”

She actually seemed _almost_ impressed with his knowledge. Almost.

“You’ve apparently done your research,” she mocked. “You must also know then that – in order to stop me – you’ll have to kill all of my potential hosts, one by one. Can you do it?”

“Yep,” Ianto answered coldly.

There was a way to remove the implants after the death of the Bruydac, but she was already beyond that phase. She was no longer Betty; the damage had already been too great. If he’d learned anything from the disaster with Lisa, it was to let go of people where there was no longer any hope for them.

“You’ll never know, though, if I still have another life left to me or not,” she continued mocking him. 

But he could see the rising panic in her eyes and knew for a fact that she had to be the last.

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he said. “We’ll take your ship apart and destroy the machine with which you implant people. And that, basically, will be it.”

“Or so you think,” she said, still with that twisted, mocking grin, but her eyes were full of fear.

“No; so I _know_ ,” Ianto countered and pulled the trigger.

The light in her eyes seemed to vanish like and extinguished candle as the electric rays of the taser hit her squarely in the chest. Where previously had been some sort of smugness in her expression, now was only incomprehension, confusion and pain. Ianto was sure that for a moment, he was seeing the real Betty, freed from a moment from the Bruydac’s control.

She glanced around in the dimly lit tunnel in bewilderment. She breathed a single word – ‘Oh!’ – and then her eyes rolled back in her head, and she dropped to the floor like she’d been pole-axed. The high setting of the taser had burned out the control sphere in her spine, shortcutting it and severing the connection to the frozen Bruydac in the Vaults permanently.

Unfortunately, it also put so much pressure on her already weakened heart that she died on the spot. One more person whom Torchwood had been unable to save.

Still keeping his distance, Ianto touched his earpiece.

“Sally? Ianto here. The host has been neutralised. Send somebody down here to help me get her back to the med bay and go to yellow alert. I’m reasonably sure that it’s over, but we’ll keep up surveillance for another twenty-four hours, just in case.”


	17. Clean-Up & Other Unpleasant Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** There are some disturbing images in this chapter.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER 17 – CLEAN-UP & OTHER UNPLEASANT THINGS**

Less than an hour later the team and one royal prince were gathered on the gallery right above the med bay, watching Owen and Dr Connelly do the autopsy on the recently deceased Beth whose last name they still didn’t know. The poor girl’s corpse lay on the autopsy table with its arms spread, skin flayed back, the chest exposed and the abdomen open. The traditional Y-shaped incision had been made, from the shoulders to mid-chest and on down to the pubic region. Dr Connelly had cut the cartilages to separate the ribs from the breastbone to give them a better look into the chest cavity.

Dr Connelly was the one doing the actual autopsy, of course, Owen’s hands being too unsteady due to his steadily worsening drinking habit. But he was, at least, ordering the results of the lab examinations, projecting the details onto the large virtual screen in the middle of the main Hub area.

Having alien tech at one’s disposal did have its advantages. Even if the razor sharp holographic images were beyond disturbing, an autopsy being what it was.

“It’s basically the same case as last year,” Owen explained. “Preliminary examination shows evidence of oestrous tissue in the upper gastrointestinal tract, but nothing much by the pyloric antrum.”

Prince William raised a hand. “Can we have that in English, please?” 

He seemed surprisingly unfazed by the gory sight, which spoke of an extraordinary strong stomach. Not everyone could watch autopsies without throwing up, even after all that desensitising caused by TV-shows like CSI and NCIS. Reality was something entirely different, and most people didn’t need long to realise that.

“To put it simply, she swallowed a lot of bone fragments while chewing out the neck of her victims,” Lloyd explained matter-of-factly, reminding Ianto of Jack’s comment from when they’d examined the first Bruydac host, about a year earlier. “Her stomach will probably contain blood and skill fragments and brain fluid from other, presumably different DNA sources.”

“The first victims we found in the alleyway? The prince guessed, and Ianto nodded grimly.

“Afraid so.”

“The equipment is still working on the examination of the oesophagus, stomach, pancreas, duodenum and spleen,” Lloyd added. “As expected, we found traces of non-human elements there.”

“From one of those starfish creatures that they cough up?” asked Prince William.

Owen shrugged. “Most likely, yeah. We haven’t found the creature itself in her stomach, though.”

“That’s not good,” Gwen commented, remembering her encounter with the giant version of the alien starfish that neatly ate Jack and shuddered. She’d had her head injury dressed after having woken up in Beth’s cell and looked like death warmed over. “Those… things are vile; and bloody hard to kill, once they’ve grown a bit.”

Ianto looked at Tosh. “Have we any CVCTV footage showing her cough up such a thing while in the Hub?”

Tosh shook her head and hurried to her workstation.

“I’ll start a search at once,” she replied, her fingers clicking away on the keyboard already. “If there’s anything, Mainframe will find it in a minute or two. Go on in the meantime, I’ll follow things on my monitor here.”

“Sure, boss lady,” Owen returned sarcastically but continued anyway. “Well, the organs don’t contain much of a surprise. Lots of bacteria in the blood, but that’s normal for somebody living on the streets. Same for the bile and urine analysis. She was a smoker, but there’s no indication of drug use, prescription medicines or poison.”

“Homeless people rarely get proper medical treatment,” Dr Connelly, who worked in a homeless shelter in her spare time voluntarily, commented in a dry tone. “And they rarely have anything worth poisoning them for… unless somebody had an eye on their regular sleeping place.”

“She did enjoy a drink, though,” Owen added. “Her liver is more than a little enlarged.”

Dr Connelly shrugged. “One way to keep themselves warm.”

“And where’s the alien device inserted in her spine?” Prince William asked.

“Still attached to the spinal column,” Dr Connelly reached inside the body with a thong. “We’ll have it in a moment.”

She produced the thing with a flourish. It was spherical, about the size of a large marble, but with a dull chrome furnish, considerably blackened now that the thing had burned out. There were three spiked attachments to one side of it.

“Is that how it was fixed in place?” Lloyd asked with detached scientific interest.

Owen nodded and took it from Dr Connelly, placing it into a small containment box, then looked at Ianto askance.

“Any plans what we should do with it, Teaboy?”

Ianto handed the box to Sally. “Put it in the safe in Jack’s office,” he said. “We’ll incinerate it later. Any other insights, Owen?”

Owen shoo his head. “Nah. Nothing we hadn’t figured out the first time we saw one of those things.”

“And was this truly the last host?” the prince asked.

Ianto nodded. “Apparently. I checked on the Bruydac in the Vaults; it’s dead, which means it had no other host to switch its consciousness to. All in all, we’ve been fortunate.”

“So it’s over?” Mickey asked doubtfully.

“Not before we can be sure there’s no starfish somewhere in the Hub,” Ianto said. “Or before we’d have dismantled the ship and melted down every piece of tech that might cause us further trouble. We still have a lot of work to do.”

Mickey frowned. “How long can the little buggers survive outside a host body anyway?”

“It depends on the environment, I guess, although we never had the chance to observe,” Ianto answered absently.

He looked at the tall, stainless steel water tower that reached from the basin in the Hub up to the high ceiling where it continued up another seventy feet beyond the pavement of Roald Dahl Plass opposite the Millennium Centre. It was a rare piece of modern art, with the constantly flowing water cascading down like a shimmering curtain on all sides of the pillar. The lower half of it had started to turn green with algae, yet – thanks to the alien-enhanced demoisturising tech used everywhere in the base – the Hub itself never felt or smelled damp.

The basin itself seemed to rise and fall with the tide. Sometimes they even found fish, flapping there helplessly; the Hub was seamlessly aligned with the surrounding area, both above and below ground levels.

Which, albeit practical, also presented its own problems – especially at the moment.

“These starfish creatures grow like crazy when put in water and fed regularly,” Ianto said thoughtfully. “And, as you can see, we’ve got plenty of water within the base itself. What’s even worse, the fountain basin is connected to the Bay.”

“Which means the starfish… thing can get food naturally, as they eat all sorts of organic matter,” Owen added, pulling an unhappy face. “Including algae and all sorts of waste.”

“Or it can get out into the Bay itself, and then we’ll soon have the legendary Kraken at our hands,” Ianto said. “Tosh, have Mainframe put the filters in places; let’s pray that the thing is still in here, where we can at least contain it.”

“Oh, fuck!” Owen groaned dramatically. “I can see a fishing trip coming my way. As if having me hands elbow-deep in somebody else’s cold, dead guts half the time wasn’t bad enough.”

“Well, it weren’t _your_ hands this time,” Dr Connelly said pointedly.

“Besides, wasn’t it you who caught that stranded bream and cooked it in the kitchen on the upper level for us?” Gwen asked, grinning.

Owen closed his eyes in well-played despair. “No more Harry Ramsden jokes, please!”

“That was the only home-made meal we ever had in the Hub,” Ianto said, somewhat nostalgically; then he shook himself. “All right, team, let’s go fishing. Owen, you stay with Angie and have that taser ready. The others split up in groups of two and start searching every water surface in the hub. Use the steel dragnets and make sure you have your tasers at the highest settings. Tosh, keep searching. Gwen, you go back to the tourist office; you’re injured and would only slow us down. Lieutenant, you with me!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
If Gwen wanted to protest she didn’t get the chance to do so. Ianto practically pushed her into the lift and sent it up to the tourist office where she’d be relatively safe – and wouldn’t get anyone killed by getting all stubborn on him in the wrong moment.

He locked the lift to prevent her from coming back down, just to be sure.

“Sally, Mickey, go check on the quarantine cells,” he instructed their newbies. The homeless people had been moved back to their calls as the immediate danger seemed to be over. “Tell the people that stabbing those things with pointed objects, even if it’s only a fork, can work… as long as they can avoid direct contact with the digestive fluids.”

Sally and Mickey nodded and headed for the stairway. Owen was already searching the immediate area of the med bay, while Trevor and Lloyd dragged little catchers, woven from steel chain, along the small rivulets that led away the surplus coming from the water tower.

“What are we going to do?” Prince William asked warily.

“Investigating the basin itself,” Ianto tossed a taser at him. “You’ll protect my back. I don’t know how big these things can actually become, but the one Gwen electrocuted with a hairdryer or whatnot last year had tentacles more than a metre apiece, so stand back. This weapon has the range of five metres without losing any of its effectiveness, so no need for stupid heroics. Should the thing be in there, aim at the water and keep firing until it’s dead.”

“But what if it grabs you before?” Prince William asked with a frown.

Ianto gave him a flat look. “I’m expendable. Our first priority is to destroy the creature before the situation gets out of control.”

The prince shook his head in exasperation.

“For somebody so young you surely have one hell of a death wish,” he commented.

“No, actually I don’t,” Ianto replied. “I no longer care enough to _wish_ I were dead. Let’s move. I want this creature found and killed, as soon as possible.”

They approached the basin with great care, Prince William following Ianto from a distance of a metre and a half, taser on the ready at its highest settings. Ianto was holding a similar weapon, ready to fire at the smallest possible movement in the water. He, at least, knew what they were about to face – and yet it caught him unaware.

Something shot out of the basin faster than the eye could follow and – before either of them could have reacted – wrapped itself over Ianto’s arm, knocking the taser out of his hand in the process. Ianto swore in Welsh and tried to find something to hold onto but found nothing. For a moment Prince William was petrified with shock. Dealing with the Bruydac warrior was one thing, but this… this _creature_ … it was like some cheap special effect from an old, bad B-movie from the US – just a lot more deadly.

The thing that had grabbed Ianto’s arm was a tentacle; the arm of some sort of kraken that must have lurked in the basin for a while. The head or torso – if the thing had one in the first place – was not visible; the creature appeared to be nothing but a collection of long, coarse-skinned arms that emerged from the fluttering water. Two of the limbs stretched up towards the water tower and made soft, popping sounds as their suckers detached and reattached themselves to the gleaming surface of the metal. The other two draped over the rim of the basin, each about a metre long. The water splashed over the rim, splattering the concrete floor with small puddles in a diameter of several metres. 

The nearest of the monster’s arms had seized Ianto’s right forearm. It was wrapped firmly around the sleeve of his suit jacket and was dragging him, skidding, across the floor. Something seemed to smoke around the place where the tentacle touched the coarse wool of the sleeve.

“Snap out of it!” Ianto yelled at the prince.

Prince William finally overcame his shock and fired at the arm holding onto Ianto. The electric discharge sizzled on the wet surface of the tentacle. The creature writhed in the water, nearly breaking Ianto’s arm, but otherwise barely reacted.

“Fire into the water!” Ianto shouted. “We need a much bigger discharge!”

“It would electrocute you, too,” Prince William protested.

“I prefer it to be eaten by this… thing!” Ianto snapped. “For God’s sake, _do_ something!”

Above the rim of the basin the prince now could see where the tentacles joined the creature’s body. Underneath that place a dark hole was opening up and a thick tube began to extrude itself like some kind of proboscis, not unlike an elephant’s trunk, only translucent.

But it wasn’t a trunk, the prince realised with a thrill of horror. It was the thing’s _mouth_. And Ianto was being dragged helplessly across the floor towards the kraken’s maw. Prince William understood that if he wanted to act, he didn’t have much time left. He raised the taser in a sure, two-handed grip and fired into the basin.

Immediately, the main Hub area was illuminated by a huge flash. Blue-white sparks arched over the surface of the water. The giant starfish made no sound, but its three unattached arms flailed and trashed. They slapped repeatedly against the water tower, spraying water all around like some bizarre fountain.

The tentacle that had wound itself around Ianto’s arm whipped away with a slurping sound as the suckers detached themselves, and he tumbled and fell to the wet concrete floor, twitching spasmodically.

Prince William let go of the trigger. After a few seconds, the blue spark disappeared and the creature ceased to trash. The tentacles slid lifelessly down the water tower and the starfish sank under the surface of the basin. 

The rest of the Torchwood team came running – and stared in shock. Owen was the first to pull himself together, his doctor’s instincts kicking in.

“Somebody bring the biggest catcher and fish that thing out of the basin before it begins to disintegrate and contaminate the entire Bay with whatever is inside it,” he said.

Mickey nodded and he and Lloyd launched into action. Owen looked at the prince.

“Help me with Teaboy,” he said. “We must take off his jacket. The thing has already begun to digest it, and it’s only a matter of time until its digestive juices eat through the sleeve to his skin – if they haven’t already.”

“Get him over to the med bay!” Dr Connolly called. “We have to counteract the effects of the electric shock before he goes into cardiac arrest.”

“Nothing can beat waking up on an autopsy table,” Owen commented dryly.

He and the prince grabbed Ianto under the arms and the knees, carried him over to the med bay and hauled him onto the autopsy table. Owen grabbed a blanket from one of the cabinets, rolled it up quickly and put it under Ianto’s ankles to elevate his legs. He then folded another blanket and put it under Ianto’s back, to position his head slightly lower than the upper body.

With the help of Sally, Dr Connelly wrenched the suit jacket off Ianto’s shoulders and threw it to the floor. The right sleeve had a large patch in the forearm, where the starfish had grabbed Ianto; it looked as if the acid had eaten through the wool. A smaller, matching hole could be found in Ianto’s crispy white, pure cotton shirt.

“Fucking digestive fluids dissolve _any_ organic matter within reach,” Owen growled. “Let’s take off his shirt, too; there might be an acidic wound on his arm.”

Dr Connelly was already cutting away Ianto’s shirt and removed the damaged right sleeve, careful not to touch the still wet hole in it. Ianto’s lightly furred chest seemed unharmed, but on his right forearm was a raw red patch: an irregular circle about five centimetres across, oozing blood.

“Clean the wound,” Dr Connelly said to Owen. “I’ll have to give him something that would stop his heart from… well, stopping. He’s got a fairly high amount of voltage, I’m afraid.”

“Use this,” Owen selected a phial from the medical cabinet and tossed it to her. “Inject it directly into the heart.”

Angie Connelly eyed the phial in suspicion. “Is this some sort of weird alien stuff?”

Owen nodded. “Yep. And if you don’t administer it _now_ , there will be no use of doing it later. He’s just gone into cardiac arrest.”

“Why aren’t you doing it?” asked the prince quietly, while Dr Connelly, still looking more than a little doubtful, was injecting the strangely fluorescent liquid directly into Ianto’s heart by way of an extra long needle. “You’ve got far more experience with alien stuff, haven’t you?”

Owen looked down at his hands in regret. They were trembling slightly; a telltale sign of his worsening drinking habit. He was sober at the moment, but withdrawal symptoms had already kicked in.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he admitted. “I could kill him.”

He waited until Ianto’s heart restarted, then selected some supplies to clean the wound and ease the burning feel of it. Ianto couldn’t actually _feel_ it right now, of course, but that was no reason to let him suffer more than inevitable.

“Don’t you need to make an ECG, or blood tests, or a CT scan or whatnot?” Prince William wondered. Owen shook his head.

“That emergency shot ought to do the trick. I’ll examine him with the Bekaran deep-tissue scanner later on, for further damage. It’s small enough to use it in our med bay; we can avoid taking him to A&E that way, which he’d hate.”

“You really need a proper sick room here,” Dr Connelly said. “You can’t keep treating your injured team-mates on the autopsy table. It’s… weird.”

Owen just shrugged. “Never needed one before. Of course, most of my patients were dead already when they arrived, and the team never liked me fussing over them.”

“That’s because your bedside manner,” Tosh told him. “Or rather the complete lack thereof,” she then looked at Dr Connelly. “We can move him to one of the ready rooms. At least he’ll have a proper bed there.”

“You mean a fucking uncomfortable one,” Owen commented, and it was Tosh’s turn to shrug now.

“You aren’t supposed to sleep too comfortably in a ready room,” she reminded him. “They’re for short naps only, so that you’d hear a Rift alarm and be wide awake within seconds.”

“They’re still bloody uncomfortable,” Owen muttered but he had no objection to moving Ianto there.

As they rolled him onto the gurney, Prince William could catch a glimpse of his back that was heavily scarred. There were burn marks, what seemed like knife marks, knots where several of his ribs had been broken (and not too long ago, either), and on his left side something that was clearly an operation scar: fine and neatly healed, but still there.

“A souvenir from the cannibals of the Breckon Beacons,” Tosh explained quietly, and the prince nodded, signalling that he was familiar with the event. “Those… animals beat him – and kicked him – so hard that half of his ribs were broken. His left kidney was damaged beyond help and it had to be removed. He was in hospital for three weeks… we nearly lost him because everyone was too concerned with Gwen’s shotgun wound,” she added, with a dark glare in Owen’s direction.

After all, Jack was no longer there to be glared at.

“And the rest?” the prince asked. “The older ones?”

“Canary Wharf,” Tosh answered simply. “You know he was there, don’t you?”

The prince nodded. “ _And_ about the Cyberwoman incident, yes. Ms Cooper was kind enough to inform us all during their visit to the Palace.”

“Bitch,” Tosh commented succinctly, and everybody seemed to be in agreement.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
In the meantime Lloyd and Mickey had fished the starfish out of the basin and placed it into a containment tank. It had shrivelled up already and looked like a grey, pulpy mass, slowly disintegrating and clouding the water in the tank. Lloyd watched it in disgust.

“There won’t be much to examine later,” she said. “Nothing by chemical analysis, that is.”

“Switch on the stasis field,” Tosh pointed at the right button. “Just in case Owen decides to dissect it later.

Owen pulled a face. “No, thanks. I’ve had one last year; that’s enough for a lifetime.”

“I might, though,” Lloyd said. “I never dissected an alien before. And perhaps I can find a way to neutralise it without electrocuting its victim, too.”

“You mean a chemical agent?” Prince William asked. Lloyd shrugged.

“Why not? Apparently, the Slitheen can be destroyed by simple household vinegar; why couldn’t be there something seemingly harmless that would be useful against these starfish things? It doesn’t always have to be a nuclear warhead. Simple chemistry can be useful, too. Biochemistry even more so.”

“For somebody who’s just joined Torchwood, you know a great deal about aliens,” the prince commented. Lloyd shrugged again.

“Not really. It’s just something Mickey mentioned yesterday. He _was_ the one who hacked into the Royal Navy and fired that missile from the H.M.S. _Taurean_ at Downing Street via computer, from his own bedroom, terminating the Slitheen invaders, after all.”

The prince looked at the young man who truly didn’t look like any sort of superhero with newly acquired respect. “That was _you?_ I was given ex-Prime Minister Harriet Jones’s report – the _real_ one, not the public version, of course – but your name wasn’t even mentioned in it. I know you used to travel with the Doctor, but…”

“Just for a short time and not necessarily voluntarily,” Mickey gave him a jaundiced look. “As long as I stupidly hoped to get my girlfriend back. Besides, this was before that. I was practically drafted into the whole thing because the others couldn’t get hold of a computer.”

“Mickey Smith, defending the Earth against alien scum,” Owen muttered sarcastically.

Mickey gave him a two-fingered salute. “And don’t you ever forget it, Doc!”

Trevor scowled at him a bit. Mickey’s – however involuntary – role in releasing the Daleks from the Void Ship at Canary Wharf was still a sour topic with him, even though he’d actually liked to work with the younger man under the late Dr Singh’s tutoring.

“Very funny,” he said. “But how’s Jonesy doing?”

“Recovering,” Dr Connelly replied. “Whatever this alien stuff is Dr Harper had me injected him with, worked wonders. And so did the salve for his wound. I wouldn’t be surprised if he were up and working by the morning again.”

Owen snorted. “He’d be up and working even if he were dead on his feet and his arm had rotted. Bloody thick-headed Welsh git! He’ll be more upset about his ruined suit than about having nearly died.”

“Well, it **was a very nice suit, and it certainly wasn’t cheap,” Dr Connelly said. “Perhaps he can get a replacement, seeing that he’d ruined it in the line of duty or whatever it’s called.”**

**“He could,” Owen said. “But he wouldn’t. As I said: Teaboy is bloody stubborn. Welsh pride and all that shit.”**

**“Is that why he’s the only one wearing a suit all the time?” Dr Connelly asked. “I never saw any of you wearing a suit; or him wearing anything else.”**

**“It was a job requirement at Torchwood One,” Trevor explained. “I for my part am glad it isn’t one here, but Jonesy was always a bit formal at work. All archivists were; it was Mr Howarth’s influence, I guess.”**

**“Shouldn’t you address him with a little more respect, then?” Prince William suggested. “He might be younger than everyone else but he’s your boss now; and more than that, he’s the head of whatever is left of Torchwood, which is actually more than even you might know. Giving him silly nicknames is hardly appropriate.”**

**“Jonesy and I have been friends since the day he joined Torchwood One,” Trevor replied. “We survived Canary Wharf together. When I give him a nickname, it’s meant in friendship, and he knows it and doesn’t mind. Dr Harper, of course, is simply a twat… pardon my rudeness, sir.”**

**“You might be rude but you’re certainly right,” Lloyd said dryly. “Okay, folks, what are we supposed to do while our fearless leader recovers?”**

**Owen shrugged. “Tosh is second in command now…”**

**“Go home!” Tosh said. "I’ll stay and explain the computer systems to Sally during night shift. Should there be a Rift alarm, I’ll call the rest of you. No need to stay here when you can rest properly.”**

**“I’ll stay, too,” the prince offered. “I’d like to learn more about Torchwood as long as I still have the time. But wouldn’t Mr Jones need some fresh clothes and stuff? Someone should go to his place and fetch them.”**

**Tosh shook her head. ”That isn’t necessary. Ianto always keeps several changes of clothes in the Hub; even shoes. This job is hard on your wardrobe,” she added sadly, still mourning for her favourite cashmere scarf.**

**“After what I’ve seen in the last couple of days I don’t doubt that it is,” Prince William agreed. “However, a three-piece-suit might not be the best choice when someone is recovering.”**

**“No worries; Ianto does keep casual clothes in his locker, too,” Tosh replied. “Even a tracksuit, in the odd chance that he might be able to put in an hour of training at the nearby gym. Theoretically he’s supposed to exercise regularly; ever since that happy trip to the Breckon Beacons he’s been suffering from back pains.”**

**Owen nodded grimly. “They did a real number on him; and, as Tosh has just helpfully reminded me, I didn’t even notice.”**

**“It isn’t entirely your fault,” Trevor apparently decided to give his fellow Londoner some moral support. “Jonesy is very good at hiding when he’s not well. Too good, if you ask me.”**

**“It’s still no excuse,” Owen muttered. “I’m the bloody doctor here, I should have noticed. If I weren’t so preoccupied with Gwen…”**

**“Yeah, it is hard to ignore the woman with the shotgun wound,” Tosh said dryly. “Especially when you’re shagging her behind the back of her clueless boyfriend.”**

**“It’s over, and you know that,” Owen protested.**

**“I do,” Tosh allowed. “Which is why you ought to stop before going on another useless guilt trip. That won’t help anyone and you’d just end up on the bottom of the whiskey bottle again. Go home, have something substantial to eat and then sleep. We’ll keep a watchful eye on the martyr of the day for you.”**

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
After some more grumbling Owen actually did as he’d been told, and so did the others. Tosh had Prince William logged in to the Torchwood database, so that he could browse as he pleased – two hundred years’ worth of accumulated data meant that there was a lot to browse through – and sat down with Sally to train her in the use of the tracking system, the CCTV network and other useful tasks that would be needed on the daily basis.**

**Ianto slept through the night relatively peacefully, allowing the alien medicine given to him to work its miracles.**

**“It isn’t really _alien_ medicine, you know,” Tosh confided in the prince. “It’s actually come from Earth; the _future_ Earth. Jack said from the late 29th century, give or take a decade. Which is fortunate, because it’s been – or rather will be – created before mankind would begin to tamper with its genetics in earnest, so it can be used on contemporary humans.”**

**“With great effect, obviously,” the prince commented. Tosh nodded.**

**“I wish we had it back when Ianto was beaten up so brutally by those goddamn cannibals,” she said sadly. “We might have been able to save his kidney. But it only fell through the Rift a little less than a month ago.”**

**“What do you mean _fell through the Rift_?” the prince asked.**

**“We assume it was some kind of medical transport, caught up by the Rift in the 29th century and was dropped off in Cathay Park,” Tosh explained. “We didn’t get the transport vessel, though, just the cargo, which is a great deal more useful, of course.”**

**“Couldn’t be this medicine analysed and reproduced by the pharmaceutical industry?” Prince William asked.**

**Tosh gave him an apologetic look. “Perhaps. But we can’t allow that.”**

**“Why not?” the prince frowned. It could save lives, hundreds or thousands of them.”**

**“And that, exactly, is the problem,” Tosh pointed out. “If the pharmaceutical industry got something like this placed simply into their laps, they’d have no reason to push medical research forward. If they stopped the research _now_ , this medicine might never be developed in the future,” she shrugged. “I’m sure you’ve already heard of this: it’s called the butterfly effect.”**

**“Well, it sucks,” the prince declared unhappily.**

**“Oh, yes, that it does, very much so,” Tosh agreed, thinking of her grandfather with his weak heart and of many other people who might live a lot longer if she – _they_ , Torchwood – could disregard the rules.**

**“But we can’t contaminate the timeline,” she continued. “Momentary rewards would cause unpredictable disasters in the future, I’m afraid.”**

**“Like the Doctor destroying the career of Prime Minister Jones and thus the chance of a new Golden Age of Britain he’d announced himself, just because she dared to take action against the Sycorax?” Prince William asked grimly.**

**His grandmother had successfully handed down that particular grudge to him. It was a grudge shared by many members of the royal family.**

**“And practically cleared Harold Saxon’s way to power, yeah,” Tosh sighed. “I still can’t believe that he could be so spiteful. But again, this new regeneration is very different from the one I used to travel with.”**

**Prince William stared at her with his mouth hanging literally open. “You travelled with the _Doctor_? But-but there’s nothing about _that_ in your file!”**

**“Of course there isn’t,” Tosh smiled. “The TARDIS chose to behave for a change and he managed to bring me back in time, before my weekend of leave would be over. Only Jack knew that I was actually gone for two years.”**

**“Two _years_ ,” the prince repeated in awe, the ramifications of time travel only beginning to sink in with him. “The things you must have seen… tell me about it?”**

**He sounded like a little boy begging for a bedtime story, and Tosh laughed.**

**“Why not? We’ve got plenty of time, and the Rift seems fairly quiet at the moment. Well, it all began after the thwarted Slitheen take-over. He sent his companion home for the weekend and was bored, I think. Anyway, we met in a park and he offered to take me to the site of the Battle of Dan-no-ura, for the festivities, which I never saw, but the TARDIS happened to have the hiccups or whatnot, and we ended up in the middle of the actual battle, nine hundred years in the past…”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise that the starfish creature in “Another Life” needed more time to become quite as big as it has. I decided to allow it to grow a lot faster here.
> 
> Tosh’s adventures in 11th century Japan can be read in my story “Travellers’ Tales”, here on this site.


	18. At Caregan Barracks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caregan Barracks are book canon, borrowed from the novel “Another Life” by Peter Anghelides. I postulated that it had been taken over by UNIT somewhen during Season 1, but after the events of the novel. 
> 
> In the “Sleeping Dragons” universe the Dr Who episodes “The Sontaran Strategem/The Poison Sky” happened earlier, while Martha Jones was still the Tenth Doctor’s companion.  
> Lucy Saxon’s bio is from the fictional Harold Saxon website.  
> Colonel Mace, Captain Marion Price, Sergeant Zbrigniew, Corporal Bell and the Privates Jenkins, Harris and Grey all come from Dr Who, of course.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER 18 – AT CAREGAN BARRACKS**

In the next morning – after another more or less sleepless night spent exploring what the Torchwood database had to offer – Prince William got an unexpected phone call. An official one that left him in a somewhat sour mood.

“Playtime’s over, I’m afraid,” he told Ianto unhappily. “I was just asked to pay a visit to that new UNIT base outside Cardiff. That will cost me my last day here.”

Ianto, who was in fact back on his feet and looking only slightly worse for the wear, thanks to the achievements of 29th-century medicine, looked up from the coffee machine where he was performing his early morning magic.

“Pity,” he deadpanned. “And I was just getting used to have you around, Lieutenant. You’d make an excellent field agent.”

The prince laughed. “I don’t think the family would give their consent. Not even my brother would approve. Do you know what he said when I wanted to become a policeman – granted, I was still a young child then?” he switched to falsetto to imitate his baby brother. “You can’t! You’ve got to be king!”

Ianto smiled. “There are worse jobs. Being the Torchwood director when Torchwood still has less than ten people to face an alien invasion, for starters.”

They both laughed. Then, getting serious again, Ianto added. 

“Actually your visit at the local Torchwood base could be beneficial for us. If the UNIT brass realise that you’re our new liaison to the Crown and have visited us, too, it might keep them off my back. I need time to get things rolling here; a UNIT colonel breathing down my neck wouldn’t be helpful.”

“Don’t you find it a bit suspicious that you got invited to visit the brand new UNIT base while you’re here – when no-one is actually supposed to know that you _are_ here?” Tosh asked warily. She was waiting for the first round of coffee of the day before going off-shift and heading for home.

Prince William shook his head. “No; the request came directly from the Brig – I mean Sir Alistair – and he and Commodore Sullivan knew I was coming here.”

“True; but neither of them is in direct command of UNIT; not anymore,” pointed out Tosh. “Colonel Smythe is the new commanding officer of the British division, and he was _never_ a friend of Jack’s.”

“Neither was Colonel Mace, the new commanding officer of Caregan Barracks,” Ianto reminded her. “I don’t like the direction things seem to be heading for with UNIT: Let’s hope that your visit will help to bring some light into the game they are playing,” he looked at the prince, who nodded grimly.

“I’ll do what I can,” he promised. “And I’ll try to visit semi-regularly, once I got that transfer to Anglesey Valley. I want to learn more about the Rift and the aliens that come through and the dangers it might represent. I know that my father doesn’t really believe in that danger, but _I do_ ; and so does Her Majesty.”

“It is a relief to know we have you watching our back,” Ianto said tiredly. “Things could turn very ugly any moment; and without a warning. Jack liked to say that the twenty-first century is when everything changes and that we have to be ready… I’m afraid right now we aren’t.”

“Ready for what?” Prince William asked.

“I don’t know,” Ianto admitted. “I’m not sure that Jack did, either. But I do know that the Rift can cause time shifts as well; and what Director Hopkins saw during one of those time shifts frightened him enough to kill his entire team – to spare them what’s coming,” he grinned humourlessly. “He actually apologised to Jack for not being able to do the same for him, right before he committed suicide, can you imagine that?”

“In truth, I can,” the prince said grimly. “Military commanders have been known to do something like that when everything seems to be lost; to spare their men captivity and torture. I’m surprised that Captain Harkness would tell you about this, though.”

“He didn’t,” Ianto snorted. “Jack was never forthcoming when it came to his past. But the circumstances under which he became the leader of the Cardiff branch were well-documented at One; including the CCTV footage of Director Hopkins’s suicide.”

“You saw it?” the prince asked. Ianto nodded.

“I was selected to become Mr Howarth’s successor. Eventually. Learning all important facts of Torchwood’s history was part of my training.”

“Do you believe that Mr Hopkins might have foreseen the events at Canary Wharf and the fall of Torchwood London?” Prince William suggested. Ianto shrugged.

“It’s possible, I reckon. Those events were horrible enough to frighten somebody to death. But we can’t be sure. So the safest thing is to prepare for something even worse, so that we won’t be caught unaware again.”

“Worse than Canary Wharf?” the prince shook his head doubtfully. “What could possibly be worse than Daleks and Cybermen fighting over a defenceless Earth?”

“I don’t know,” Ianto answered. “But the universe is infinitely creative when it comes to finding methods to wipe out mankind.”

“And never a Doctor when you need one,” the prince joked.

“I’m not the one who ever needed him,” Ianto returned grimly. “One had the means to protect the planet, thank you very much. The problem was that they didn’t recognise the threat in time.”

“Do _you_ have the same defensive means?” Prince William asked. “Could you use the weapon with which Torchwood London destroyed the Sycorax warship last Christmas?

“No,” Ianto admitted. “I would have the access, yes, but with Torchwood Tower gone, the components situated in different places within London would need a central unit to coordinate them. Jack never thought of finding one, and I’ll need time for that. Months, most certainly; years more likely. But the UNIT base you’re about to visit is built over an abandoned coal mine. A mine in which the military stores their nuclear warheads. Ten of them. Those could represent a line of defence it needs must be.”

Prince William stared at him in shock. “You… you’re not supposed to know _that_! Nobody is! _I wouldn’t_ know about it, had the Brigadier not told me after Her Majesty had made me the new Torchwood liaison!”

“You forget that Jack’s spent more than a century here,” Ianto said. “He might not like to speak about his own past, but he wanted us to know what potential dangers were hidden in Cardiff itself. Well,” he corrected himself wryly, “he actually told Suzie, who was our weapons expert at that time. They tended to overlook me in the background.”

Prince William shook his head in amusement. “You’re a sneaky one, Mr Jones.”

“That’s my secret weapon,” Ianto agreed. “Never underestimate the usefulness of being underestimated. Well, Your Highness, how are you supposed to get to Coregan Barracks? Are they sending a car for you or should I drive you to the base? _That_ would confuse the military properly; and later I’ve got an appointment with Ms Smith in town anyway.”

“You are hardly in the shape to drive just yet,” Prince William replied, “And showing up there in the Torchwood mobile might be tactically unwise. However, Sir Alistair emphasized that your presence would be also required.”

After the things he’d seen and survived in his young life, few of them could still surprise Ianto. _This_ was one of those.”

“What for?” he asked. The prince shrugged.

“I don’t know. But apparently we should go there together.”

Ianto thought about that for a moment; then he turned to Toshiko apologetically.

“Tosh, I hate to do this to you, but could you stay here until I return? I can’t leave the Hub in Owen’s hands, and the newbies aren’t up to handle things on their own yet.”

Tosh nodded. She was Torchwood; unexpected double shifts were nothing new to her. “Sure. What about Gwen?”

“She’s on two weeks of unpaid leave, effective immediately,” Ianto replied. “ _If_ she comes in today, which I doubt, seeing how she’s injured and all, keep her in the interrogation room with a mountain of paperwork. I’ll deal with her when I’m back.”

“Are you really up to driving?” Tosh asked worriedly. “We can have Trevor drive you; he’s reliable and trustworthy. And the UNIT types won’t mind him, since he used to work for them.”

“I know,” Ianto said with a wry smile. “But he hasn’t been invited. Something tells me that this is going to be a very confidential visit. Which is why we’re taking my car; and I’ll even allow the lieutenant to drive,” he added.

“That borders on knighting,” Tosh, who knew how reluctant Ianto was to let other people drive his car ever since John Ellis had stolen it to commit suicide in it in Jack’s company, told the prince.

“Needs must,” Ianto said simply. Since he didn’t actually feel up to drive just a few hours after a cardiac arrest, 29th-century medicine or not, this was the only voluble solution.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The drive to Caregan Barracks, formerly the home of _Y Cymry Deheuol_ , the Southern Welsh Regiment, now the newest UNIT base in Britain (and the first and only one in Wales at that) was not a long one. Even though Prince William drove very carefully to spare Ianto any unnecessary discomfort caused by the bumpy road, they got there just under an hour.

The base itself wasn’t particularly large, either, enclosed by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Warning signs hung on the fence in regular intervals, telling them that they were approaching the territory of the Ministry of Defence. The rest of the wording on them was the stilted formality of the Official Secrets Act, describing the risk of arrest and prosecution of “unauthorised persons”.

Ianto didn’t bother to read them. As the new Torchwood Director, he was authorised to enter UNIT property; and besides, he was invited… sort of. Not to mention that he was accompanying a royal prince.

Said royal prince pulled up the Audi to the entrance with practiced ease. Ianto curbed down the window on the passenger side and showed his ID to the red-capped sentries at the red-and-white striped barrier.

“Director Jones of Torchwood,” he said. “I understand that we’re expected by the base commander.”

The sentries cast a look at his driver and snapped to attention at once. The prince, who’d deactivated the chameleon circuit as soon as they reached the base, returned the greeting with a salute.

“As you were,” he then said. “Can we go in now?”

“Right away, Your Highness,” one of them, a tall, slim, almost too pretty Private with the name that Jenkins on his breast pocket replied crisply, while the other one lifted the barrier to allow them in.

At the same time a jeep with two armed soldiers pulled up to escort them past the crisp tramping of a drill practice and into the visitors’ parking lot. One solider was a stocky young man, as dark-skinned as Detective Swanson, the other one tall and muscular, with dark hair and a ruggedly handsome face, both wearing the rank insignia of Privates.

The shorter one hurried to open the car door for Prince William. There was a near-anxious eagerness in his mannerism to please the high-ranking visitor – not something seen often among UNIT soldiers. They were usually quite the cocky, self-confident bunch. His comrade rolled his eyes good-naturedly but spared himself a comment.

“ _I am_ quite capable of getting out of the car on my own, thanks,” Prince William shot Ianto a questioning glance that meant: _Are you_? Ianto gave a barely perceptive nod. “We may need somebody to show us the way to the base commander’s office, though.”

“We’ll escort you there at once, Your Highness,” Private Short & Stocky replied nervously, while Ianto was getting out of the passenger seat, more slowly and carefully than he’d usually do.

“Well, go on then,” the prince ordered. “We’ll follow you.”

He understood that Ianto didn’t want to give away his weakened state and tried his best to help. The two Privates obediently marched off in front of them, and they followed at a more moderate pace, so that Ianto could conserve his strength.

The buildings that they passed clearly originated from the time when the base had belonged to the Southern Welsh Regiment. They were squat and low, with wide and shallow-sloping roofs. Most of them had only one storey, and their white stucco walls were punched with aluminium-framed windows at regular intervals. Only one of the buildings had a second storey clad in dark timber, and it was towards this that the soldiers steered them.

“Do you know the base commander?” Ianto asked the prince in a low voice. “I mean, personally?”

Prince William nodded. “Colonel Alan Mace; I met him during a joint drill session with UNIT. He’s a graduate of Sandhurst; a very capable man, one of the best UNIT has to offer. He served in the regular Army before recruited by UNIT and was awarded with the Queen’s Gallantry Medal in 1998, for some special duties he did in Afghanistan. Until recently, he was the commanding officer of UNIT’s British division and, of course, he coordinated the defensive actions during the failed Sontaran invasion.”

Ianto whistled. “Impressive.”

“A shame he had to be transferred to this insignificant base out in nowhere,” the prince added. “For the short time when he served as the commander of UNIT’s British Division, at least we could rest assured that the troops were in good hands. As I said: a very capable, no-nonsense officer.”

“Why has he then punished with this assignment?” Ianto asked in surprise.

Prince William shrugged. “For personal reasons. Apparently, he disregarded the non-fraternisation rules and wasn’t discreet enough while doing so.”

“He was demoted because he had an affair with someone under his command?” Ianto shook his head in bewilderment. “While otherwise he best possible man for the job? That’s just plain stupid.”

“Not within the ranks of the regular Army,” the prince replied. “They – _we_ – see those things differently than the civilians. Even Torchwood.”

But there was something in his voice that made Ianto ask. “Do you believe that it was the true reason for his reassignment?”

The prince shrugged. “It was the worst-kept secret that he and Captain Marion Price had… feelings for each other, and everyone looked the other way because he’d proved his worth many times over. Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart speaks highly of him.”

Which was high praise indeed, and Ianto knew that.

“Why would they remove him then? To make room for Colonel Smythe?”

“Most likely,” Prince William said grimly. “Colonel Smythe has always been favoured by Defence Minister Saxon; any means to clear the way for him would have been welcome.”

“That,” said Ianto after a lengthy pause, “is deeply disturbing.”

Prince William simply nodded in agreement.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
In the meantime they reached the command building and Ianto eyed with interest the laminated notice hanging on the wall outside the base commander’s office, which detailed, in brief, the expectations of soldiers at the barracks. The list started with “Selfless Commitment – to put others before you”, went through “Courage”, Discipline”, Integrity” and “Loyalty”, and concluded with “Respect for others – to treat others with decency at all times”.

Ianto remembered Gwen’s acerbic comments about her visit in the then-Army barracks, earlier in that year. Apparently, the same notice had already hung there, and apparently, the base commander, Lieutenant Colonel Yorke, ought to have been reminded of those expectations, the arrogant sod.

It seemed, however, that Colonel Mace was cut from a different sort of wood. Or it was the presence of Prince William. In any case, he rose at once from behind his large, neatly ordered desk, as soon as they entered, gave the prince a proper military salute (which Prince William returned) and shook hands with Ianto across the desk.

“Congratulations to your promotion, Mr Jones,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” Ianto replied politely. “Allow me to remark that we’re relieved to have you here. UNIT’s loss is definitely our gain.”

Colonel Mace snorted. “Not according to Harkness.”

“Jack tended to be very territorial,” Ianto said with a shrug; which was a polite description of the fact that Jack and all ranking UNIT officers – with the exception of the Brigadier – had been at each other’s throats all the time. “I, on the other hand, prefer to be a tad more accommodating, in the hope that cooperation between Torchwood and UNIT may become smoother in the future.”

“Good for you; for us all,” the colonel said a little doubtfully; then he gave Ianto a more thorough look. “Aren’t you a little young for such heavy responsibility, though?”

“One must start young at Torchwood,” Ianto answered dryly. “As a rule, one doesn’t grow old in the job. Besides, I’m the senior agent at Torchwood Cardiff; and the only one trained at Headquarters. There weren’t many choices, really.”

“You survived Canary Wharf?” the attitude of Colonel Mace changed visibly; now it was one battle-hardened veteran talking to another one. “And still chose to remain with Torchwood? That takes courage.”

Ianto shrugged again. “I was lucky. And I didn’t have anywhere else to go. Not if I wanted to keep my memories intact.”

“Would it have been so bad to forget Canary Wharf? The horrors, the massacre?” the colonel asked. He was a professional soldier; had seen his fair share of that, before switching to UNIT – and afterwards, too; the Sontaran invasion was just one of the many crises he’d faced.

“I met my fiancée at Torchwood London,” Ianto said simply. “She… didn’t survive. My memories of her are all that was left me. I didn’t want to give them up; to forget about her completely.”

Something visibly softened in the leathery, hard-lined face of Colonel Mace. A similar memory perhaps? After all, he’d sacrificed a stellar career for love, too. In any case, it seemed to warm him towards Ianto.

“Well,” he said. “The three of us have some confidential matters to discuss. But in the spirit of future cooperation, Harris and Grey will give you a tour around the base, once we are finished. It might come in handy later; just in case my successor would prove less… er… cooperative.”

Ianto appreciated the gesture. He said so, earning a tight smile from the colonel. Then Mace pushed the intercom button, speaking to his secretary.

“Tea for three, Carol; and, unless Headquarters or the Brig personally calls, I won’t be available for the next hour.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Carol, the colonel’s secretary, turned out to be an iron-grey, stone-faced corporal in her late sixties – one of the retired personnel that had to be called back to active duty after the heavy losses against the Sontarans. She did make excellent tea, though. Even Ianto, generally a coffee person, had to admit that. 

According her name tag, her last name was Bell – it sounded vaguely familiar to Ianto, but he was still too weak to overtax his memory with searching for trivia. He knew it was something related to the Doctor – an earlier version of him – but most likely nothing significant, or else the memory would have been easily accessible.

“Well, then,” the colonel said after Corporal Bell had left. “Now we can speak freely. It’s not that I wouldn’t trust Carol; she’s the most stubborn and loyal person I’ve ever met, but it’s better if she doesn’t know too much – for her own safety.”

He paused and looked at Ianto. “Don’t you have some alien gizmo on you that could make any potential listening devices useless?”

“You mean a scrambler?” Ianto pulled something out of his pocket; something that looked like a cheap mobile phone. He placed it on the corner of the desk and switched it on with a sweep of his thumb. The little device emanated a faint buzz, almost but not quite above human hearing.

Colonel Mace nodded. “Exactly. I hoped that among all the junk the Rift coughs up there would be the occasional useful piece.”

“Do you believe you might be under surveillance, Colonel?” Prince William asked.

“I’m not sure,” Colonel Mace replied with a shrug. “I have Private Harris go through this office with the fine-toothed thumb every day – he’s very technically savvy – but even he might overlook something he doesn’t know how to look for. Better safe than sorry.”

“But who would spy on you and why?” the prince frowned.

The colonel shrugged again. “Why, Harold Saxon, of course. He’s been awfully chummy with a lot of ranking UNIT officers, ever since he joined the Ministry of Defence almost two years ago, but I’m not one of his bootlickers, and he knows it. Why, do you think, have I been deported to this godforsaken place?”

“I was told that happened for… er… personal reasons,” the prince tried to be as diplomatic as he could.

Mace snorted. “Oh, please! We’ve just thwarted an alien invasion – admittedly, we _had_ a little help – I should have been promoted, not exiled. But I guess Mr Saxon learned about my meeting with that _Sunday Mirror_ reporter, Vivien Rook, who’d been nosing around a bit in his past. He doesn’t like people nosing around in his past.”

“Interesting,” Ianto commented. “Did she find anything?”

“That’s the interesting part,” the colonel replied slowly. “She found very little that would be conclusive. At first sight, Saxon’s papers seem to be legitimate, and people even seem to remember him from school or university. There can’t be any doubt that he’s a gifted man, either: think of the Archangel Network, the new airship carrier, the _Valiant_ – it’s all been his design. And yet there is something very odd about him. In many aspects he doesn’t even seem to have existed before he popped up to mess with politics eighteen months ago.”

“For a man whose autobiography was the biggest bestseller of the book market last year quite a feat,” Ianto commented dryly.

“Exactly,” the colonel agreed. “His entire life seems to be a fabrication; and yet I can’t really put my finger on the actual falsity. The man’s slippery like an eel. I wonder about his wife, too.”

“Oh, she’s the genuine item all right,” Prince William waved off his concerns. “I’ve known her all my life. She’s the youngest child of Lord Cole of Tarminster, who sat in the House of Lords prior to the reforms. She attended Roedean School and represented Sussex at netball before going on to study Italian at St Andrew’s.”

“St. Andrews? Wasn’t that the same uni you went to?” Ianto asked.”

“It was; but she was several years ahead of me and we rarely met,” the prince explained. “After graduating, she’s worked for several charities and most recently in publishing. That’s how she met Saxon to begin with: by working on his autobiography.”

“And she never tried to follow in her father’s footsteps?” the colonel asked.

The prince shook his head. “Lucy never saw herself as a political person. She just believes in doing what’s best, and – naïvely enough – she believes that Saxon shares her ethics.”

“Which means we can’t count on her, should we need an ally against her husband, even though the two of you used to play together in the sandbox,” Ianto concluded.

“We didn’t,” the prince replied dryly. “But otherwise you’re right. Nobody has done more to support Saxon’s campaign than his wife.”

“She’s just the respectable front,” Colonel Mace said dismissively. “Saxon had – and still has – much more powerful allies. This Ms Rook has found proof that he was financially supporting Dr Lazarus’s rejuvenating project – although no-one can tell where the actual money came from – and even hired Lazarus’s PR chief after the man’s death.”

“Miss Jones?” Ianto frowned; at their identical surprised looks he rolled his eyes. “Oh, please! As if Torchwood wouldn’t monitor any suspicious research where alien – or future – technology could be used! Owen followed the Lazarus Project with great interest, even though he always insisted that the theory behind it was bollocks – excuse the language, it was a direct quote – and that it would blow into Lazarus’s face spectacularly. He was right, it seems,” he added with a wry grin.

“Your Dr Harper has more experience with hat alien mumbo-jumbo than most,” Colonel Mace allowed. “But in any case, Saxon _was_ involved somehow; and there are dozens of other questionable projects where he has his fingers in the pie. Ms Rook gave me a list; she told me that it wasn’t even a full one. She’s still investigating.”

“Can I have a copy of that list?” Ianto asked. “We’ve got the means to do a little investigation of our own.”

Not to mention Sarah Jane Smith, who could find out just about everything if she put her mind to it, but he wasn’t telling the colonel _that_.

“Yeah, now that Miss Jacobs chose to leave UNIT and transfer to your lot,” the colonel scowled, apparently unhappy to lose such a competent employee. Ianto didn’t blame him. Sally was really good: intelligent and technically savvy, not to mention amazingly courageous. Abilities she could get to much better use with Torchwood than she had as a glorified phone operator at the UNIT Headquarters.

Nonetheless, Mace did give him a copy of the list, which Ianto folded carefully and tucked into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He’d have Tosh to look up those projects. Sally was good but Tosh was better. Much better than anyone, even Ianto himself, when it came to work with Mainframe.

And once Tosh had worked her magic, Sarah Jane Smith would have some hard facts on her hands to find out the details.

“In any case,” the colonel continued, “I asked you to come here for a specific reason. I assume you both know why this outpost has been established right here in the first place?”

Both young men nodded.

“I’m not satisfied with our security measures,” Mace went on. “They’re outdated and could be more easily circumvented by using more recent technology than I’m comfortable with. I’d hate some megalomaniac to get his hands on our… _cargo_ , but as things are now, I couldn’t prevent it. I have but a handful men at my disposal that I can trust unconditionally, and they are re-drafted veterans or people who’ve been damaged during the Sontaran invasion – one way or another.”

“So you want better security measures for your cargo and you believe we could provide them?” Ianto clarified.

“I _know_ you can provide them,” Colonel Mace snorted. Clearly, he was a man who snorted a lot. “That base of yours could withstand a full-scale alien invasion or a nuclear war when under lockdown. I want something similar for the stuff I’ve been made responsible for.”

“Not for the base itself?” the prince asked.

The colonel shook his head.

“Nah; this place is expendable. It’s the warheads that need to be inaccessible; and I need a way to self-destruct the access panel within the base in record time, if needs must be,” he looked at Ianto. “Can you give me that?”

“I can’t guarantee the same absolute security the lockdown gives our base,” Ianto answered thoughtfully. “Part of it is provided by our central computer, and it’s one of its kind. But Dr Howard used to work with a similar system at Torchwood London and also in that new, experimental UNIT lab. I’ll send him over to put his head together with your technicians and see what they can come up with between them. We might even be able to provide the necessary hardware.”

“Couldn’t UNIT Headquarters provide it more easily?” asked Prince William.

“Most likely,” Colonel Mace allowed. “But that would mean asking Smythe; and Smythe is Saxon’s creature. They sent me here to cut me off whatever game they’re playing. I’d prefer to leave them in the mistaken belief that they’ve succeeded.”

“That makes sense,” Ianto agreed. “Being underestimated can be an advantage.”

If anyone, _he_ certainly knew that.

“As, I’m sure, it served you well in the past,” the colonel replied dryly. “Which brings me to the other matter: the safety of His Highness,” he nodded in Prince William’s direction.

“ _My_ safety?” the prince replied in surprise. “Who would want to harm me? Save for the usual suspects like terrorists, militant anarchists and the likes? And, more importantly, _why_?”

“Think about it,” the colonel answered grimly. “What better way to destroy the morale of the British nation than to hit the royal family? Her Majesty, although amazingly robust for her age, is elderly; and your father supports Saxon. You’re next in the line for the throne; therefore you’d be the ideal target.”

“I’m afraid the colonel does have a point here,” Ianto commented darkly. “And the fact that Her Majesty assigned you as the new Torchwood liaison to the Crown only made things worse: it gave Saxon another reason to remove you from the game. He never liked Torchwood, but when Jack flat out refused to install the Archangel Network software in our comm system, things turned from distant coldness to downright hostility. Which is exactly why I’m glad that Torchwood has its own communications network.”

“But… but for that you’d need to have your own satellite!” the colonel exclaimed.

“We do and we have,” Ianto replied simply.

“But the Torchwood One satellite was destroyed in the Battle of Canary Wharf!” Colonel Mace insisted.

Ianto shook his head.

“No, it wasn’t. Sure, it was hit by a random Dalek ray, but it came away with moderate damage. Toshiko – that is, Dr Sato – spent the last year trying to repair it via remote control. It still has its problems, especially with the surveillance function, but as a telecommunication relay it works well enough. We can equip you – both of you – with Torchwood-issue phones, but you mustn’t use them except in dire peril. That’s our only advantage on Saxon, and I’d prefer if he didn’t discover it.”

“That would come in handy,” Colonel Mace said. “Prince William might have to seek refuge at Torchwood, if things become really ugly. Being able to contact you without Saxon’s knowledge could prove crucial.”

“You really expect me to hide away in the Torchwood base in case of an emergency?” the prince asked, clearly offended.

“I _count_ on you being reasonable, Your Highness,” the colonel answered. “The continuity of the royal family must be ensured. You are a symbol for the entire British nation; even for those who’re opposed to the monarchy as a state form. The troops would all gladly die to keep you safe; but let’s face it, we might not be able to do so, and then our deaths would be in vain. So I ask you, Your Highness, to make a promise: that you’d allow Torchwood to protect you when we no longer can. Not for your own sake; but because when the crisis is over, the people will need somebody to turn to for guidance.”

“Assuming there _will_ be a crisis, and that people would accept guidance from somebody who’s barely more than a child himself,” Prince William said dryly.

“Oh, there will and they would,” the colonel said with feeling. “Trust me in that; I may be just an old grunt, but I know our people. They’ll desperately need you.”

“In that case, I promise,” Prince William said, a little reluctantly. Hiding away in a crisis was very much against his nature, but he knew his duty towards his subjects.

“Good,” Colonel Mace said; then he turned to Ianto. “And you, Mr Jones, must promise me to protect him with everything Torchwood has at its disposal. You young people might not realise it, but he’s Britain’s future.”

 _The King ruling during the new Golden Age of Britain, that the Doctor had prophesized – and then destroyed by destroying the career of Harriet Jones_ , Ianto grinned mirthlessly. If saving the young prince might, in some way, make it possible, despite the Doctor’s spiteful actions, Torchwood would do its best to protect him. If only to piss that self-righteous Time Lord off.

“I promise,” he said simply.

“Good,” Colonel Mace replied. “I won’t ask you for details – the less I know the less can I tell, should I be… _interrogated_ some time in the future. Now, His Highness and I have a few things to discuss before his flight arrives. In the meantime Harris and Grey can give you that tour I promised.”


	19. Public Relations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know that Privates Jenkins, Harris and Stevie Grey were killed in “The Sontaran Strategem”. I resurrected them because I prefer canon characters, no matter how minor they are, to OCs that would serve the same purpose. Besides, the guys were cool and deserved to have a bit more screen time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER 19 – PUBLIC RELATIONS**

Ianto took the dismissal with as much grace as he was capable of. In theory, he’d have been entitled to be present at any meeting between their royal liaison and any UNIT representative. But he assumed that Colonel Mace wanted to discuss personal concerns with the prince and found it better – for the sake of their future working relationship – not to get all stubborn on the man.

Not until he absolutely _had_ to.

So he shook hands with the prince and followed the stocky, dark-skinned soldier, whose name was apparently Private Stevie Grey, out of the command building. On the outside, the other soldier joined them, introducing himself as Private Carl Harris. He and Grey were obviously best mates, despite their different personal backgrounds and, as Harris explained, they’d both been selected to follow Colonel Mace to the Cardiff base after his not-quite-voluntary transfer a couple of months ago – something they were both decidedly unhappy about.

“Nothing against Cardiff,” Harris clarified. “But Stevie’s folks are all in London, and I’m a technician. There’s nothing here for me. At Headquarters I got the chance to play with alien tech a bit; especially as I was lucky enough to work with Captain Price. She’s great with that kind of stuff; one of the best engineers UNIT’s had for a long time.”

“And we hoped to meet some friendly aliens for a change,” Stevie Grey commented. “Not like in Cardiff where Torchwood always gets everywhere ahead of us. No offence, sir,” he added hurriedly.

“None taken,” Ianto replied. “Believe me, I’d gladly let you deal with the Weevils. The problem is you’d need to be _in_ the city for that. By the time you arrived to the sighting it would be too late. Besides, do you really want to chase after them in the sewers?”

Stevie shrugged. “If I have to… At least they’re a known quality. And easily dealt with, if one knows what to do.”

“That’s certainly true,” Ianto thought of the sex gas alien, the fairies, the murderous Acatarian rogue, Suzie under the influence of the resurrection glove, Bilis Manger... and had to admit that the Weevils were indeed the lesser evil.

“Have you ever had a true alien encounter?” he then asked.

The two soldiers exchanged grim looks, and it was Harris who answered.

“More than once, in fact. We were both on duty at Headquarters during the Sycorax invasion, suffered nerve damage from the Sontaran mind-control – in fact, both we and Private Jenkins nearly died and were declared unfit for armed duty until further tests – and we were with the clean-up teams after Canary Wharf. Still have the nightmares,” he gave Ianto an inquisitive look. “They say you’re one of the survivors, sir. Is that true?”

Ianto nodded. “Still have the nightmares, too. _And_ the scars.”

“I can imagine,” Harris cleared his throat and shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Well, why don’t we give you that tour, then?”

They led him around the corners of several white stucco walls. The buildings were mostly indistinguishable and laid out in a simple grid pattern that made it hard to keep track of the route. Not for Ianto, obviously, who fixed the layout of the base in his photographic memory at once; but anybody with a common mind would have been lost, fairly soon.

At one point they crossed a cracked expanse of grey tarmac, where a group of soldiers was struggling through an assault course. Ianto grinned briefly at the voice shouting a mixture of encouragement and abuse at them. Private Harris noticed it and grinned back at him.

“Sergeant Zbrigniew knows how to keep us on our toes,” he commented.

That name, too, sounded vaguely familiar, and when Ianto recalled the anecdote connected to the name, the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a beatific smile.

“Wasn’t he Brigadier Bambera’s sergeant in 1989?” he asked. “The one who repeatedly commented that whenever the Doctor turns up, all hell breaks lose?”

The two soldiers grinned.

“He still does,” Harris said. “The Sergeant is a tough old bastard. Never changes his mind about anything or anyone and can still beat each and every one of us in hand-to-hand combat.”

“A most versatile man indeed,” Ianto agreed. “If he ever gets tired of tutoring green recruits, I’ll gladly hire him to train field agents.”

Harris shook his head. “The Sergeant would never accept civilian employment. It’s much more fun to boss soldiers around; we, at least, _have_ to obey whatever his orders are.”

They laughed and continued the tour, skirting another open expanse, this time a dirt-and-gravel rectangle traversed by wires on short red metal posts. The trainees – all impossibly young, or so it seemed to Ianto – crawled, ran or climbed around those posts in their sweat-soaked uniforms, carrying full weaponry and huge backpacks. From further away came the crack of simple gunshots on a distant firing range.

“You’ve got a great number of new recruits,” Ianto commented in surprise.

“Not really,” Harris confessed. “Most regular troops still belong to the Southern Welsh Regiment. This place was originally their training base, as I’m sure you know sir. They still use it as one, according to an arrangement between UNIT and the regular Army. UNIT simply couldn’t afford to send troops here, save for us cripples,” he added bitterly. “So the Army allowed us to borrow some of the local troops in case of an emergency, and in exchange they can use the base to train the newbies.”

“One must admit that they’re freakishly good, though,” Stevie Grey supplied. “They start with reveille at 6 a.m. Then they perform drill practices, map reading, first aid and rifle handling…. Whatever happens to be on the daily programme. Then they do what they call _passing off the square_ – a six-mile-run and a drill test. It’s… intimidating, to be honest.”

“And we thought UNIT boot camp was brutal,” Harris added, grinning.

Ianto gave them a crooked smile. “Well, they’re _Welsh_. We do nothing by halves.”

He was joking, of course. But deep within, the knowledge that the majority of the troops at Coregan Barracks still consisted of Welsh soldiers put him at ease, for some reason.

The two soldiers rolled their eyes good-naturedly and showed him the sleeping blocks: the same low, squat buildings as the rest of the camp. As Harris explained – he was the one doing most of the talking – those were the living accommodations of the trainees, plus some of the staff.

“Transferred UNIT soldiers are all assigned to the same block,” he added. “The rooms are for two or four persons, depending on their size. Sergeant Zbrigniew, being an instructor, has a single room, of course. And this is ours.”

He opened one of the similar-looking doors – the only difference being the large white number painted on them, a Roman number for the block and an Arabic one for the room – to show Ianto the inside. The room was tightly organised, of course, but not according to old-fashioned stereotypes. The narrow, single beds had plain white headboards and identical covers. The crisp white sheets were covered by sand-coloured blankets with hospital corners, pulled so tight they could have been used as trampolines. Next to each bed were fitted cupboards, with bedside tables and reading lamps. Some family photos, books, magazines and other personal items cluttered the bedside tables.

Being a highly organised person himself, Ianto appreciated the sight.

“Toshiko – I mean Dr Sato – mentioned that the facilities were less regimented than she’d expected,” he commented.

Harris shrugged.

“It isn’t the institutional stuff that civilians expect,” he agreed. “But again, this has been a modern training site from the beginning. For example, newcomers always got their first taste of shooting a weapon on a computer-simulated firing range. I never thought I’d find something like that outside of Headquarters.”

“We’ve got the obvious stuff like a sports hall,” Stevie Grey supplied. “But there’s also a cinema and a bowling alley. Was already there when UNIT took over the base, in fact.”

“Impressive,” Ianto said. “But it still doesn’t explain why Colonel Mace decided to have me shown around the base. For example, what do I need to see the sleeping blocks for?”

“’Cause you need to know where you can find us, if needs must be,” Harris replied.

Ianto raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “You mean the two of you?”

Harris shook his head.

“No; us, UNIT soldiers. They say you’ve got excellent memory, sir, which would enable you to find the right building if you have to – is that true?”

“ _Who_ says it?” Ianto asked with mild suspicion.

“Jenkins does,” Stevie Grey replied. “He generally knows things he isn’t supposed to, sir. Things nobody else of us grunts does.”

“And how would he do that?” Ianto inquired, remembering the almost-too-pretty soldier at the gate. He hadn’t made the impression of some secret MI5 agent; but again, appearances could be misleading.

Harris shrugged. “His entire family is made up of UNIT bigwigs; both scientists and soldiers. Such people always know more than the average bloke.”

“And he still serves as a common soldier?” Ianto wondered.

“He never got on with his folks and joined UNIT as a simple grunt, just to piss them off,” Harris explained, grinning. “They disowned him for that; so he picked a random name from his mother’s family and goes by it.”

“No-one really knows who exactly his folks are,” Stevie Grey added. “The only sure thing is that Commodore Sullivan is his godfather – and the only one who still speaks with him.”

“I reckon that makes his commanding officers very happy,” Ianto commented dryly.

Harris grinned. “Every single one of them has despised him so far; Colonel Mace isn’t an exception. It’s the attitude. But he’s a damn good soldier… well, he _was_ , until recently.”

“What happened?” Ianto asked.

“He was hit by a Sontaran weapon, from close proximity,” Harris explained. “Nobody really understands _how_ he survived; either the weapon malfunctioned, or he’s simply too stubborn to die. But the damage to his nervous system was considerable; and his inner ear was shot to hell. Can’t even drive a car safely any more.”

“Is the damage irreversible? Ianto asked, knowing that this would be enough to invalide a career soldier out of active duty.

Harris shrugged again. “Hard to tell. Commodore Sullivan did his best to get him the best treatment – he’s a doctor himself, after all, and has access to stuff no-one else does – but the chances are still fifty-fifty.”

“And he’s still kept in active duty?” Ianto shook his head in surprise.

“Such as duty is for us in these days,” Harris replied philosophically. “There’s not much any of us can really do – other than stand guard, baby-sit visitors and do a bit of tech work and decoding. Not even our weapons are loaded, lest we injure ourselves or someone else when we get the bloody spasms. Which is why they sent us all here with Colonel Mace,” he added darkly. “They hope we won’t be much of a hindrance when they come after the colonel.”

“There are still the regular Army troops,” Ianto pointed out.

“Yeah, but those are under the command of the government… which means the Defence Minister, who isn’t exactly a fan of the colonel,” Harris reminded him. “Right now, our ragtag band of cripples and re-drafted pensioners are the only people the colonel can really trust. The only ones _you_ can trust, too.”

“Me?” Ianto asked in surprise.

“Torchwood,” Harris clarified. “We’ve been debriefed by the Brig before we were sent here. He told us to cooperate with Torchwood whenever he have to, ‘cause the Army likely won’t. I’m mainly here for the tech stuff, such as it currently is at the base; supposed to work on security measures with your people.”

“Are you an engineer?” Ianto asked. Harris shook his head.

“Technician first class. But I learned a great deal while working for Captain Price. I can give your people a hand if I have to.”

“That’s good,” Ianto said. “We’re acutely understaffed as it is, but I promised Colonel Mace to send one of our engineers to update your security system. Dr Howard is an engineer and has worked for a UNIT lab until recently, so he knows the protocols. If you can work with him that spares me the necessity to send another tech, which would be a relief.”

Harris nodded. “I’ve met Dr Howard at Headquarters a few times. He’s a decent bloke. We’ll get on well enough, I guess.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
As they were talking, they’d finished the tour and reached the command building again. By then, Prince William and the colonel were done with their private meeting and were waiting for Ianto.

“The helicopter will be here within twenty minutes to take me to Anglesey,” the prince told him. “I hope I’ll be able to visit Cardiff again, in the not too distant future.”

“You aren’t going back to London?” Ianto was fairly surprised by that turn of events.

The prince shrugged. “Change of plans. The elections are in a few days; the outcome is rather predictable, don’t you think?”

Ianto pulled a face. “Saxon,” he predicted unhappily. Prince William nodded.

“Almost certainly. Sir Alistair apparently believes that I would be safer with the Search & Rescue people in RAF Valley and he managed to persuade my grandmother to send me there at once. My brother will be taken to a different base, for his own safety.”

“Are those people really trustworthy?” Ianto asked in concern.

The prince nodded. “Commodore Sullivan still has a lot of influence with them. He hand-picked the people I’ll be staying with. It’s as safe as humanly possible. The same is true for Harry.”

“What about the helicopter pilot?” Ianto still wasn’t entirely convinced.

“He’ll stay here. I’ll fly the helicopter myself; something he doesn’t know yet,” Prince William reached for his tiepin that was actually a chameleon circuit. “I should give this back to you.”

“No, keep it,” Ianto replied. “Who knows, you might need to go undercover, and then it would come in handy.”

“Thanks,” the prince gave him a god, hard look. “Are you really all right? Your heart _did_ stop yesterday, you know.”

“I know,” Ianto smiled. “But I’m fine, thanks. Well… as fine as it can be expected only half a day after being electrocuted. But that’s Torchwood for you. I might need a lift back to the city, though,” he glanced at the two shocked soldiers. “Do you think that could be arranged? I don’t trust my reflexes to drive a car just yet.”

As always, Harris was the first to recover.

“Well, usually Jenkins it the one to play chauffeur to VIPs,” he said. “But he’s still in no shape to do so. I can drive you, sir, and then catch the bus back and call in for a pick up from the last stop, assuming the colonel permits.”

“Put on civilian clothes first,” the prince ordered. “No need to draw any undue attraction, and that red beret is a dead give-away. I’ll clear things with Colonel Mace.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Thus Ianto took his leave from Prince William and the colonel and was driven back to the city by Private Harris. He used the hour-long drive for a much-needed nap – now that the visit at Coregan Barracks was over, he could feel his strength vane rapidly – and emerged from his sleep at the moment Harris drove the Audi into the private parking lot of _St David’s Hotel_ , where he was supposed to meet Sarah Jane Smith. After a cup of industrial strength coffee from the ever-present thermos (and wouldn’t Owen kill him if he knew?) he felt vaguely human again but accepted Harris’s help with getting out of the car without stupid pride.

“Thank you, Mr Harris,” he said. “I’m sorry you’ll have to get back to the base on your own. I could have someone from Torchwood drive you back if you want. Most of them do have private cars.”

“Nah, no need for that, sir,” Harris replied. “I got the rest of the day off, so I’ll do the tourist thing a bit, I guess. Never had the chance to actually see anything of the city yet.”

“Well, in that case,” Ianto opened the glove compartment and took out a couple of flayers, handing them to the soldier. “These might prove helpful.

Harris laughed. “Do you always carry this stuff on you, sir?”

“Not really,” Ianto admitted. “But we do have a tourist information shack as our cover shop, and these things came in last week. I just forgot to take them in. There were more important things to do. Well, take care and enjoy your first time in Cardiff.”

Harris accepted the flyers, thanked him and left to play tourist in Cardiff. Ianto took a deep breath and schooled his face to careful indifference before taking the lift to the lounge. He and Sarah Jane Smith had agreed to meet there, as in all the coming and going there was less of a chance for being overheard than in her rook, which might have been bugged.

It was strange and unsettling to consider such possibilities. But Sarah Jane smith was an ex-companion who had been involved with UNIT for decades, on several different levels. It wasn’t unreasonable to assume that she might have caught Saxon’s attention; and the Archangel network that basically everyone had on their phones in these days made it frightening easy to keep tab on people. They were better safe than sorry.

To his surprise, he didn’t find Sarah Jane Smith alone; and it wasn’t really hard to recognise the mousey-looking young woman with her as Cathy Salt, the science correspondent of the _Cardiff Gazette_. 

Ms Salt had made herself a name as a serious yet doggedly persistent journalist who, thanks to her bachelor’s degree in sciences, actually understood the problems she was writing about. Her contribution to the stopping of Mayor Blaine’s ill-designed Bad Wold Project which, if executed according the original plans, would have caused the destruction of the entire South Wales, had earned her a lot of well-deserved reputation.

Even if she couldn’t know that the original project was simply a Raxacoricofallapatorian plot to get the last member of the Slitheen family off-planet. A plan that, fortunately, got thwarted by the previous regeneration of the Doctor, a then-mortal Jack Harkness and Mickey Smith, who had told Ianto all about it shortly after joining Torchwood Three.

Sarah Jane Smith, of course, couldn’t know that, either, so she was willing to make the introduction.

“Do you know Cathy Salt?” she asked, shaking Ianto’s hand.

“From hearsay only,” Ianto shook hands with the journalist, too. “My pleasure, Ms Salt. Our Dr Sato was very impressed with your investigation concerning the Blaidd Drwg Project. Without your insistence, the power plant might have been built according the original design… and then we wouldn’t be sitting here, having this conversation.”

Ms Salt actually blushed. “Well, I wasn’t the one who recognised the faulty design; it was that poor Mr Cleaver. Had he not posted some of his fears concerning the suppression pool on the internet, I’d never have picked up the story in the first place.”

“And you actually understood what he said about the design flaws?” Ianto raised an eyebrow. “Impressive.”

Ms Salt shrugged. “I was also good at sciences. Not good enough for an actual career, but I’ve done even a few special courses at university; enough to understand that the failure of the hydrogen recombiners would have lead to the collapse of the containment isolation system, which would have resulted in a meltdown that would have taken most of South Wales with it,” he gave Ianto a tight, ironic smile. “That’s why I’m not running the gossip column of the _Gazette_ , you know.”

“And why you need her as Torchwood’s new PR liaison,” Sarah Jane Smith added.

Ianto’s eyebrows climbed several inches higher.

“I wasn’t aware of the fact that Torchwood needed a PR liaison. Jack certainly didn’t talk to the press. Ever.”

“Jack had the presence and the weight to steamroll everyone in his way,” Sarah Jane Smith said. “ _You_ don’t. Besides, it wasn’t the best tactic from Jack’s side, either.”

“I don’t quite understand what you want from me,” Ianto shook his head. “I can’t and won’t start organising press conferences about what we’re doing. That would go against everything Torchwood _is_. Jack was right in one thing: people aren’t ready yet to know what we’re doing.”

“No, they aren’t,” Ms Salt agreed. “Which is why I could be useful for you; help with covering things up after some major event.”

“We can do that on our own well enough, thank you,” Ianto replied coolly. “What is this truly about? What do you truly want? And do tell the truth, please. I’m very good at realising when someone is lying to me.”

“All right,” Ms Salt looked him straight in the eye. “The truth. I want to be the one who gets to write the history of Torchwood in Cardiff. The _full_ history, from the very beginning, not the stupid lies you lot usually feed to the public.”

“Impossible,” Ianto replied without hesitation. “It may be that one day what we do will indeed be disclosed; but that day isn’t now and won’t be for a long time yet.”

“I know that,” she said calmly. “I’m willing to wait.”

“For how long? Your life may not be long enough to see the day,” Ianto pointed out.

Ms Salt shrugged. “I know that, too. I realise that my report would be published posthumously – most likely decades after my death. That’s fine with me. All I want is to be the one who learns the truth and gets to write it.”

“Why are you so obsessed with Torchwood?” Ianto asked, more than a little bewildered.

“Cos I’m a journalist – a good one – and there’s the possibility of the greatest story of our times,” she replied. “I’ve done my research; in a century and a half, no-one seems to have found out the truth about Torchwood. Your lot has been involved in the strangest events during this time, in some way that never got explained. And, as unbelievable as it is,. Captain Harkness seems to have been there all the time. _Or_ his father; it’s hard to tell – according to the old pictures, they looked absolutely identical. And yet every time something unfathomable happens, people conveniently forget about it soon thereafter,” she gave Ianto a glare full of suspicion. “Do you regularly drug the water or what?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Ianto said blandly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sarah Jane Smith intervened, seeing that they’d come to a deadlock and were both too stubborn to back off. “Cathy isn’t the only one wondering about such things; and you won’t be able to keep up your smoke screen forever. Not without help. You’ll have to find allies among the local authorities if you want to keep things under control.”

“I’ve got a good enough working relationship with the police, thank you,” Ianto told her in a cold, unemotional tone.

“What about the City Hall, though?” Ms Salt asked. “My husband is a public servant and works directly for Mr Grainger. He could help you to make contacts to the City Council.”

“I do have contacts to the City Hall,” Ianto answered.

Ms Salt snorted. “Forgive me, but Idris Hopper, while he may be a childhood friends of yours, isn’t the safest bet with the City Hall. He’s still having a hard time to regain his credibility after the scandal with the late Mayor Blaine.”

“He wasn’t involved in Blaine’s schemes,” Ianto retorted sharply.

Ms Salt shrugged. “You know that and I know that. But most people need a convenient scapegoat and the poor bloke was ideal for the role. That doesn’t change the fact that no-one would listen to him; not even Mr Grainger, despite the fact that he was willing to give the man a second chance. And considering that you are new in your job, you’d do well to build a good working relationship with Mr Grainger. He’s a fair, honest and very capable man, and soon enough you might find yourself being attacked from several sides. Your former boss did his best to make Torchwood as unpopular in town as humanly possible.”

“She’s right, you know,” Sarah Jane Smith said quietly. “If the new Prime Minister decides to go after Torchwood, you’ll need all help you can get. The support of the local authorities could prove very helpful.”

“Perhaps,” replied Ianto noncommittally. “I still don’t think that letting a journalist, of all people, learn about our true purpose would be the wisest move to make.”

“Oh, come on!” Ms Salt said impatiently. “I’ll sign the sodding Official Secrets Act if I have to! I’ll let you censor every word I write and give you the final report for safekeeping, for as long as you see fit to make it public. What more can you possibly want?”

“But if you never get the chance to see it in print what good would it do for you to write it in the first place?” Ianto asked, clearly not understanding the whole thing.

Ms Salt and Sarah Jane Smith exchanged knowing smiles.

“She’s a _journalist_ , Ianto,” Sarah Jane smith explained patiently. “ _Having_ this story before everyone else is like the jackpot in the lottery for one of us; even if she can’t publish it in her lifetime. It’s still going to be _her_ story. She’ll be the first not only to learn the truth but also to write it down for further generations.”

Ianto thought about it for a while and the two women let him think in peace, knowing that it wasn’t an easy decision to make.

“All right,” he finally said. “We’ll have to work out the details carefully, of course; and don’t think that I’m gonna be an easy negotiating partner. But if I’m going to do this, you’ll have to do something for me in exchange.”

“And that would be?” Ms Salt asked warily. She was clearly an intelligent woman, not promising anything before she’d have an idea about the possible repercussions.

“I need you to get in touch with a reporter of the _Sunday Mirror_ for me,” Ianto replied. “Her name is Vicky Rook, and apparently she’s gathered a great deal of information about Defence Minister Saxon. I need that information; or at least a copy of it.”

“What for?” Ms Salt asked.

“For leverage,” Ianto answered simply. “Mr Saxon isn’t exactly a friend of Torchwood; having some hard proof about any skeletons he might be hiding in the cupboard would be helpful.”

“ _I’ll_ do it,” Sarah Jane smith offered. “Cathy has a family, a small child; it’s too risky.”

“You can’t,” Ianto replied. “You’re too well-known for your contacts to UNIT: You’d endanger not only yourself but Ms Rook as well.”

Ms Salt nodded in agreement. “He’s right, Sarah Jane. It’s better when I go. I have such bland looks, I have to enter a room twice to be noticed. I can do it a lot easier.”

“It’s too dangerous,” Sarah Jane Smith protested.

“If I wanted an easy life, I’d have gone to the gossip column,” Ms Salt reminded her. “All cases I’ve investigated so far have been dangerous, but I never expected others to do the risky part for me; I won’t start with that now.”

She looked at Ianto directly. “Very well, Mr Jones. I accept your conditions. When would be a good time to meet you for working out the details and how do I contact you?”

Ianto handed her a business card with the hexagonal Torchwood logo on it and a phone number – nothing else.

“You can reach me on this number. I’ll have to deal with some disciplinary matters in the morning, but we can meet any time after lunch,” he rose. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, it’s been a very long day. Ms Smith, I’d like to speak with you privately before you return to London, though, if it’s possible.”

“Sure,” Sarah Jane Smith shrugged. “I’ll stay in Cardiff for another two or three days. You have my number; call me when Cathy and you have hammered out an agreement.”

“I will,” Ianto promised. 

Then he took his leave from them and decided to walk back to the Hub and ask someone to fetch his car from _St David’s_ parking lot later. He needed to get his head clear and make some thoughts about what changes would be needed in the daily work of Torchwood, now that he seemed to have a moment to do so.

When he reached the Plass, a thought occurred to him. He fished out his phone and speed-dialled Tosh’s number.

“Tosh? Ianto here. Tell me, can you hunt down Owen and meet me in Jack’s office in, say, two hour’s time? I think the three of us have something to discuss.”


	20. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of Part One of the “Director Jones” trilogy. The next part will deal with the Year That Never Was and the third one with the events that happened between the reset of time and Jack’s return.
> 
> I’ve stretched the limits of the Dr Who timeline a bit because the team needed more time to at least roughly re-vamp the Hub.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER 20 – AFTERMATH**

In the next morning Gwen came in a little late, as usual, and was called into Jack’s office at once… well, _Ianto’s office_ now, and it would remain his for the foreseeable future, it seemed. To her dismay, Tosh and Owen were also present, as the new department heads, although none of the newbies were which, at least, was a relief. All three were sitting behind the desk, like some sort of ridiculous committee.

“Sit down, Gwen,” Ianto gestured towards the single chair in front of the desk. “We have serious matters to discuss, and it would be good for you if you actually listened, for a change.”

Gwen threw herself onto the chair in a way that clearly showed her annoyance. Ianto appeared unimpressed by the display.

“We didn’t have the time to discuss your situation in any detail so far,” he begun, “so we’ll be doing it now. While Jack was the leader of Torchwood Three, you could take liberties no-one else was allowed to. You knew Jack was attracted to you, at least physically, and you tried to use that attraction as a means of controlling him. You never had any true respect for him as our leader and you had no respect for us as a team, despite the fact that you’re the most inexperienced rookie.”

Offended, Gwen opened her mouth to protest, but Ianto gave her a look that could have frozen Hell over, and she actually had the common sense to shut up.

“You had no sense of duty or discipline, either,” Ianto continued. “You came in when you wanted, you went home when the fancy took you, you demanded time off and when you got called on it you claimed it was because of Rhys and that Jack insisted you didn't let your relationship slide. Had you behaved like this while your were still with the police, they’d have fired you after the first month.”

Again, Gwen seemed as if she’d wanted to say something, but Ianto didn’t leave her the time to do so.

“All that is going to change,” he went on. “You will be constantly monitored at work, just in case you might get the idea of contacting UNIT or any other organisation behind my back again. The moment you arrive in the morning – and you _will_ arrive on time from now on – you are to log into your computer. Whatever you do on the system will be listed; Mainframe has been instructed accordingly. You will log out before you leave, and a daily report of the hours and actual work you do will be forwarded to me. Your phone is to be turned off, unless you are on lunch break, during which you will be logged out of the system. During your three-month test period you won’t be able to access any outside sites except for the ones on an approved list and won’t have access to the internal databases. For the next two weeks you are on unpaid suspension and afterwards, for the duration of your trial period, on restricted duty. You won’t leave the Hub, not even if there’s a full-team call-out. At the most, you will be allowed to run the call, should everyone else be needed in the field.”

At that point Gwen couldn’t remain quiet any longer. “What? I’m better suited for field work than any of you! I used to be a police constable!”

“You walked the beat,” Owen commented dryly. “You couldn’t even fire a gun before you came to us – and didn’t show much headway in that area ever since.”

“You will also need refresher courses on computer research and the use of advanced technology,” Ianto completely ignored Owen’s sarcastic comment. “Playing solitaire during work and sending stupid pictures to your friends doesn’t cover the area of technical savviness. There will also be additional training in basic first aid and proper procedures for paperwork – which you’ll do yourself, instead of trying to rope in Sally to do it for you as you used to do with me; not that she’d be willing, but let’s just lay down the law once and forever. All these courses must be validated by Tosh, Owen or myself before you will be considered for return to full field agent."

Gwen flung herself back in her chair and sent a death glare at Ianto who ignored it with practiced ease.

"As part of the new protocols I’m going to establish for the team, you’ll be required to dress in a more appropriate manner,” he continued. “If you’re unsure what would be appropriate, take a look at Tosh or Sally. This is a workplace, not a disco, and you’re not a teenager any more. Once your trial period has expired the three of us will meet and we will discuss if you have managed to grow up to the expectations.”

“And what if I don’t?” Gwen snarled; she didn’t actually seem worried that she might not – she just wanted to be obnoxious. “Are you gonna Retcon me? You know it won’t work.”

“Oh, trust me, it will. When _I_ administer the dosage, you won’t even remember your name when I’m done with you,” Ianto replied coldly. “Don’t bait me, Gwen. After all that you’ve done, including being stupid enough to let out the Bruydac host cos you, once again, wouldn’t follow the simplest of orders, I won’t hesitate to Retcon you back to your diapers,” he pushed a sheet of paper – some kind of computer print-out – across the desk to her. “Here you have it in a written form. Read it and sign it – if you want to remain with Torchwood, that is. If you don’t, we can break out the Retcon right here and right now. Otherwise, we’ll see you in two weeks… on time.”

Gwen angrily scribbled her name on the document, shoved it back in Ianto’s direction, then stormed off, slamming the door behind her with unnecessary force. The others followed her on the security cameras until she cleared the Hub, got into her car and drove off.

“Well,” Ianto said wearily. “That was… unpleasant. Let’s hope it’s going to work.”

“I wouldn’t put my hopes too high,” muttered Owen.

“I don’t, actually,” Ianto replied. “But I had to give it a try. Now, let’s discuss the really pressing matters. Here’s our schedule for the next week or so; assuming that the Rift behaves, we’ll have a lot to do, in several different areas.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
To everyone’s relief, the Rift did behave in the next couple of days, so they all could have a decent amount of sleep between work shifts. Tosh, Trevor and Mickey spent those days with dismantling the Bruydac ship and incinerating everything that seemed to have been related to the implantation machine in any way. Then they sorted out the rest of the technology for further study, leaving the organic parts for Owen and Lloyd.

Ianto kept away from the scene. It woke too many Cyberman references, and he tried to remember Lisa as she had been before Canary Wharf: the funny, bright, warm-hearted girl he had loved and planned to spend the rest of his life with.

Whatever might have gone on between him and Jack – and Ianto still couldn’t quite give it a fitting name – it was very different from what he’d shared with Lisa. His time with Lisa had been the time of innocence, a time of hope for a bright future – things that were no irreversibly lost. He had accepted that and moved on, even if it never ceased to hurt.

With Jack, it _could_ have worked eventually, despite Owen’s cruel jokes… had Jack not left without as much as a backward glance. Whether there was anything to be salvaged, should Jack ever come back, Ianto couldn’t tell. Not yet.

Unlike Gwen, who’d behaved like a scorned bride left at the altar after Jack's departure, or Tosh who was deeply hurt and scared by the loss of the man who had protected her and saved her from prison, or Owen who was simply drowning in guilt, Ianto was willing to hear Jack out – if he ever deigned to return. He would hear Jack’s side of the story, even though he, too, had felt a little cheated when he realised that Jack had simply been bidding his time for the last century and a half. He assumed that Jack had his reasons – presumably sound ones – and was willing to give the man the chance to explain himself.

Whether he’d be ready to take Jack back into his life – into his bed – was another question; one he couldn’t answer just yet.

Besides, at the moment he had other, more pressing concerns than his nonexistent love life; the reorganising of the Hub being the main one of those. Not only needed they to update the security measures, in case Saxon decided to make a move against them; with the hiring of more personnel, additional workplaces would be needed… and arranged more practically than the current haphazard layout of the main working area.

The first step in the right direction was the expanding of the autopsy area into a proper med bay. The morgue itself had to stay where it had always been, as some of the cold storage drawers were linked directly to the cryo-storage units in the Vaults and therefore couldn’t be moved. But they opened up several other areas that had been largely unused under the walkways, turning them into an actual sick room, an examination room and medical labs, the equipment for which Ianto simply organised from various sealed storage buildings. These had originally belonged to Torchwood One, and with the destruction of the central database he was now the only one who knew where they were and what they actually contained.

Mickey’s monster truck proved to be very handy for fetching and transporting the sometimes fairly large and heavy pieces of equipment. Alien-enhanced technology was often less bulky than Earth-based one, but transferring entire labs still needed a lot of skill and storage space.

After nearly three weeks of intense reconstruction work – slowed down by the fact that they had to do everything without outside help – the med albs finally looked like something straight out of Star Trek, chock-full of medical equipment that would make the heads of high-end research instituted cry with envy. The individual labs were separated by translucent walls of high security plastic – similar to what the cell doors in the basement were made of, but these rooms could be sealed airtight.

One of them, the genetics lab, was exclusively Lloyd’s realm, where she could do her own DNA analysis both on aliens and human victims or suspects – magnitudes faster than any DNA lab the police worked with. Of course, other DNA labs didn’t use advanced alien technology from the far future. 

Lloyd, who’d only insisted on a well-equipped lab in SOCO-style when she got hired, was quite overwhelmed by her new workplace. She learned to work with alien technology surprisingly fast and well, too. Ianto made a mental note to thank Detective Swanson for suggesting her to him as a possible co-worker. She was a great asset to the team.

Owen’s new exobiology lab had once been part of Torchwood One and had unexpectedly survived the Battle of Canary Wharf with nary a scratch. It took some careful maneuvering on Ianto’s side to get it out of storage and into Cardiff without drawing attention. Fortunately, at the time of the hasty clean-up after the Battle UNIT had primarily been interested in weapons, so that Jack had been able to whisk away both lab and database, meaning to add both to the Hub eventually. The database had been uploaded to Mainframe shortly thereafter, but the moving of the lab never happened… until now.

The old lab in which Owen had sometimes studied alien life forms was turned into a hothouse for extraterrestrial plants and harmless, non-sentient creatures like the small, jewel-like reptiles from an unknown planet that had previously lived in a terrarium in the Vaults. Now they had enough space to move around, and everyone was surprised to discover that they could actually fly. Only short distances, and they needed a high vantage point to land from, but they could glide rather gracefully from one plant to another, and they really thrived on the much higher temperatures and the fish food Mickey began to feed to them. They also began to make pleasant, chirping sounds like songbirds in the evenings, giving real concerts when singing together.

For the first time in decades, some of the empty sublevel areas were put to use as well. Both Tosh and Trevor got their own labs one level below the cells (but still above the Archives and the Vaults, including the residence of Mainframe), where they could do some actual engineering as opposed to the virtual work, done entirely by computers in the main Hub area. Trevor managed to hunt down what was left from his old lab from Torchwood One, with a lot of new equipment added, while Tosh’s lab was built from the scratch. Ianto simply handed her a PDA with the list of all available technology (including photos and descriptions and whatever data Torchwood had on the stuff) and she could choose whatever she wanted. Needless to say that it helped her considerably to overcome the loss of Jack.

Getting all the stuff to Cardiff secretly – they didn’t want either UNIT or Saxon to spot their activities – too considerably longer than to choose the right parts, of course. But it also left her with enough time to work on enhancing the Hub’s security.

The first order of the day was taking care of the main door. The cog wheel that served this purpose was a recycled piece from the Victorian Hub. Originally part of an outlet pump in a docking area for ships and submarines, it had been re-engineered as the main door of the Hub when the docking bay was repurposed. Now Trevor sprayed it over with a thick layer of superheated metal from the 34th century he found somewhere in the Physical Archives, making it harder and more resistant than diamonds. The new layer was also transparent, so that the cog door didn’t look a bit different than it had before.

“We could also install a time lock on the door as part of the security upgrade,” Tosh suggested. “In case any hostile enemy managed to break the door. After all, no matter how strong your defences are, there always can be someone – or something – that’s even stronger. Once the time lock is activated, the Hub would be wrapped in a bubble, allowing nothing to enter or leave… basically an enhanced version of the lockdown.”

“Hmmm,” Ianto replied noncommittally. “You think you can build something like that? Wouldn’t that require Time Lord technology – _and_ an ungodly amount of energy?”

“You forget that I used to be a companion,” Tosh said. “I travelled in the TARDIS for two years, piloted her… even repaired her if I had to. I think I got a pretty good idea how a time lock is supposed to work; and then there’s always the Rift.”

“No,” Ianto said promptly. “We’re _not_ going to tamper with the Rift manipulator. Once was bad enough.”

“That’s not what I’m planning to do,” Tosh assured him. “I just want to channel a tiny amount of Rift energy and use it to create – and fuel – the time lock. It should be quite safe.”

“You don’t sound very convincing,” muttered Ianto.

“Perhaps not,” Tosh allowed. “But I think this is a risk we ought to take to make sure that Saxon – or anyone else like him and his cronies – could never get their hands on the Rift manipulator. I don’t need to tell you what _that_ would mean, do I?”

Ianto shuddered by the mere idea. The most recent crisis, culminating in the emergence of Abaddon, had clearly shown what a horrible weapon the Rift manipulator could become. And yet they needed it, in order to keep the Rift under at least marginal control.

“Very well,” he said. “Do as you see fit. Speaking of security measures, how’s the work at Caregan Barracks progressing?”

“Trevor and Mickey have mapped the area and are working on the shielding of the mine shafts, while I’m working on a self-destruct device for the access panel in the command building,” Tosh reported. “A certain Private Harris appears to be a great help; and his mate, Private Grey, is also making himself useful. The shielding should be done within the week – that’s the easy part. No-one will realise that we’re using alien tech and metallic alloys form the future to secure those warheads. The self-destruct device is mostly computer work; I’ve drafted Private Jenkins to help me with the programming.”

“Jenkins?” Ianto repeated in surprise. “I thought he’s largely unfit for duty; can’t even drive a car!”

“But he can still hit the keys of an old-fashioned keyboard; in fact, it’s helping him to regain his fine motoric control,” Tosh replied. “Besides, I only let him do the basic programming parts. They’re quite simple but time-consuming, which I don’t have at the moment. I’ll add the key parts and the security codes when he’s done the ground work. He doesn’t mind though. He told me this was the first time he actually felt useful since he’d been injured.”

“All right,” Ianto said. “It’s your decision. If you need another pair of hands, you can always borrow Sally. The Archives can wait. Right now our security is the most important thing.”

Tosh nodded. “I know. Speaking of which, Colonel Mace asked that we removed the Archangel software from the mobile phones of all UNIT personnel at the base and add them to the secure Torchwood network. Would you authorise such a step? It would put us at a certain level of risk.”

“True,” Ianto admitted, “and I wouldn’t want them to have access to anything that’s strictly Torchwood business. Still, we need to keep the colonel on our side, seeing as he’s practically our only ally within the military. Could you separate a frequency for their use alone?”

“Sure,” Tosh answered with a shrug. “It won’t be easy, but Sally is an ace at communications. I’ll put her on it. Should we do the same with Detective Swanson’s phone?”

Ianto shook his head. “No; that would put her at risk. But we’ll give her the dumbed-down version of the Torchwood phone; one that would only connect with my mobile and the landline in Jack’s office. That way she could always reach us but would not unknowingly lead anyone to us.”

“Are you really sure that Saxon will be coming after us once the elections are over?” Tosh asked, somewhat doubtfully. Ianto nodded.

“He’s been replacing people in key positions with his own followers for a while: in the regular Army, within UNIT, in research labs working fro the Ministry of Defence. We are the only organisation left that has technology more advanced than his at our disposal, therefore we are a threat. Especially as Jack didn’t let the Archangel software anywhere near our systems. Saxon didn’t like it then; and he won’t tolerate us being outside of his influence now. Not when he comes to near unrestricted power – and we both know that he will.”

“Do we have a rat’s chance when he sends in the troops to take over the Hub?” Tosh asked.

“No,” Ianto replied simply. “Which is why I’m going to put us under lockdown at the first sign of trouble. We don’t have the manpower to resist armed troops; and I’m not sending any of you to your deaths trying to do so. I’ll do try my best to avoid a direct confrontation for as long as possible; when it seems that we won’t be able to hold down the fort, I’ll trigger the self-destruct device and we’ll all go into hiding.”

“I hope it won’t come to that,” murmured Tosh anxiously.

“So do I,” Ianto admitted. “But we need to be prepared for the worst. You’ll go to Glasgow if we have to give up the Cardiff base. Sir Archibald has prepared a sanctuary for you and himself. The two of you will be responsible for protecting the Secondary Archives, so that we’ll have something to rely on, should we have to destroy the Hub. We won’t have all the technology anymore, but we’ll still have the data. And, with the help of all the stuff stored in Torchwood House and in the various secured warehouses of One, we’ll be able to rebuild Torchwood, eventually.”

“You’ve really thought of everything,” Tosh was impressed and she didn’t hide it.

Ianto shook his head with a sad little smile.

“Not me;” those are the evacuation protocols of One, in case of an alien invasion. Only the Archivists knew the guidelines and the individual locations – which basically means me now – but the emergency measures have been in place for years, including the sanctuaries and the database copies. I’m merely putting to good use what Director Hartman and Mr Howarth had prepared, years in advance.”

“And still, nothing of that could save the people at Canary Wharf,” murmured Tosh in regret. Ianto sighed.

“Canary Wharf was the result of tragic miscalculation. The upper echelons didn’t even realise the threat. There was no warning. But yes, had they known what the ‘ghosts’ really were, they people working in the Tower could have been evacuated, and a wide-spread resistance could have been organised. Of course, had they known that they were practically opening the door for a Cyberman invasion, they’d have stopped the ghost shifts entirely.”

“Are you sure of that?” Tosh frowned. “One was fairly confident that they could deal with just about everything.”

“Regardless what Jack might have thought, Yvonne wasn’t a fool,” Ianto said dryly. “And she genuinely cared for her people. The entire project was supposed to supply Britain with clean, cheap energy… they just didn’t know what they were tampering with. And there was no way for them – for _anyone_ – to know what the Void Ship really was.”

“Of all possible things, _that_ wasn’t their fault,” Tosh agreed. “Not even the Doctor recognised it at first.”

“In any case,” Ianto continued, “there are several well-equipped sanctuaries all across Britain where we can send our people if things take a turn to the worse. For everyone’s safety, only I know where these are and where everyone is going to go. You know I can prevent that information being extracted from me.”

“By killing yourself at will,” Tosh said darkly. Ianto shrugged.

“We all have to die one day; this just gives me slightly more control about the when than people usually have. Now, when I call Code Red, the instructions will appear on the phones of each team member – for exactly one minute: where to go, how to get there and the password that would allow them to get in. Further instructions will be waiting in the sanctuaries assigned to each of you. From that moment on, you’ll be on your own. Communications with the outside – even with each other – will be limited to keep the Torchwood satellite safe.”

“Does this mean that every single one of us will be sitting alone in some sealed bunker?” Tosh asked with a frown. Ianto shook his head.

“No, there will be between two and six people in each sanctuary; and not just Torchwood. Jack has been in touch with certain former companions of the Doctor, including Sir Alistair and Commodore Sullivan; people who have already proved themselves in the one or other crisis. And I’ve taken the liberty to add a few more that I believe could prove useful.”

“But you’re not going to tell me more, are you?”

“No. I’m sorry, Tosh, but what you don’t know they can’t force out of you. The thing with torture is that it works; and you don’t have the same escape route as I have.”

“True,” Tosh remained silent for a moment. “What about our families, though? I mean, my mother is safe in Osaka, but what if Saxon’s henchmen come after my grandfather? Or after your sister? Or even Rhys?”

“It’s already been taken care of,” Ianto assured her. “Again, I won’t tell you details, but I’ve made sure that our families would be offered the chance of safety. The only one left is Rhys, since the others don’t have any immediate family.”

“So, what about Rhys?” Tosh asked. “He’s a good man, you know, despite his bad taste when it comes to women. And Gwen would sell us all in a heartbeat to save him; you know that.”

“I do,” Ianto sighed.

The events that led to the emergence of Abaddon had clearly proved that fact. Gwen might have had the hots for Jack, she might have slept with Owen (repeatedly), but Rhys was her safety blanket, and she would do everything to keep him. Even if she usually treated him like a big, affectionate but ultimately stupid dog.

“I’ll talk to Rhys, privately,” Ianto decided. “He’s a lot smarter than people would think; we could use his help to keep Gwen in the sanctuary she’ll be sent to.”

“Are you planning to reveal the truth about Torchwood to Rhys?” Tosh asked.

“If we’re keeping Gwen then yes, I think it will be necessary,” Ianto replied slowly. “She won’t be able to keep feeding him Retcon with the new security measures in place, and she simply babbles too much. It’s not that we hadn’t disclosed the truth to outsiders already; and Rhys might even be useful later. He’s got access to a number of trucks at his workplace, after all.”

Tosh grinned. “You really did think of everything, didn’t you?”

“I do my best,” Ianto said tiredly. “Let’s just hope it will be enough.”

And under normal circumstances it _would_ have been enough. Torchwood was more than capable of dealing with a few corrupt politicians and power-hungry military brass. But a few days later Harold Saxon won the elections, Earth made first contact with an alien species… and things went straight to Hell from there on.

~The End~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Director Jones II – The Year of Reckoning” is coming up. Eventually. But I'll post the other existing stories of this series first.


End file.
